


Come Back Safe (You Belong to Me)

by eloquated, sherlock221Bismymuse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: During Canon, Emotional Baggage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Protective Mycroft, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Spy Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-10-05 12:34:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 35,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17325092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eloquated/pseuds/eloquated, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlock221Bismymuse/pseuds/sherlock221Bismymuse
Summary: Today is your funeral, brother mine.  Please reply, I could use a reminder that you're still alive.They had planned for every possible eventuality.But when Sherlock leaves England to unravel Moriarty's web, the Holmes brothers discovered something they had never anticipated:How hard it was to be apart.





	1. Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, and welcome to the first chapter! Exciting, right? 
> 
> And just a quick reminder that this story does involve a consenting romantic relationship between two blood relatives. We know this isn't for everyone, just make sure to check the tags. 
> 
> The chapter title is taken from Shakespeare's 'A Midsummer Night's Dream',
> 
> _Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind._   
>  _And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind._
> 
> Thanks, and on to the fic! 💜

**January 15, 2014**

Sherlock,

It is my hope that when you read this letter you are safely in Dubai, and the first phase of our project has gone according to plan.  

Yusuf is loyal, you can trust him.  And in the case of an emergency, he will be able to contact me.  

Be careful,

Mycroft

 

**January 19, 2014**

I've received a note that you've made contact.  We have word that one of Moriarty's henchmen has agreed to give us a statement in exchange for protection.

Details for the meeting time and place to follow.

The media is having a field day here, brother.  More than we had projected.

Be careful,

Mycroft

 

**January 23, 2014**

Brother mine,

Today is your funeral.  Our parents have decided to hold the service at home in Hartfield.  

Please reply.  I could use a reminder that you are alive.

Mycroft

 

**Jan 30th**

If I didn't know better I might think you actually cared.

Really....what is next? Tear stained letters with pressed flowers ?

Yes, I am alive. So far.

 

**Feb 9th**

Algiers did not go per plan as you may have heard. Your on ground team are imbeciles.

Going deeper undercover. May not be able to write for a while.

 

**Feb 26th**

Is John safe?

 

**February 28, 2014**

The imbeciles have been dealt with.  Next time I'll ensure our agents are telepathic, to better understand when you decide to change plans without confirming.

It's difficult enough to keep in touch with you, without you going unexpectedly underground.  Don't do it again. Algiers was too close, and we will not have a repeat of that.

A contact is waiting for you in Cairo, at the usual place, 4pm Tuesday.  He has your new papers, don't be late.

Everyone is fine, brother mine.  I've kept everyone under surveillance, but there doesn't seem to be any sign of retaliation from the rest of Moriarty's organization.  

Watch your own back, and let me worry about theirs.

Be careful,

Mycroft

 

**March 3rd**

It has clearly been too long since you did legwork !

Last minute changes are critical for safety. They need to be sharper with their response times.

Take care of John.

 

**March 6th**

Cairo dealt with.

May need medical assistance.

Rashid knows where to find me.

 

**March 8, 2014**

There's a flight leaving Cairo at 10pm from Gate 29G, be on it.  It's going to be our best chance to get you out of the country until things calm down.  

You've done all you can there, brother mine.  Don't hang about the wasp's nest and wait to be stung.  We'll have to address you returning to Egypt at a later date.  Make sure Rashid gives you the boarding pass.

Watch yourself, little brother.  Another incident like this week, and I'm going to seriously consider recalling you home.  You can't stop Moriarty if you're dead, and mourning you once was quite enough.

Laurent will meet you in Paris and take you to the safe house.  There have been rumours of one of Moriarty's agents selling black market faberge eggs in the city, and he may be a possible in to the network there.

As always, please be careful,

Mycroft

 

**March 15**

Are you getting weak in your old age Mycroft? There is no question of calling me back till the mission is concluded to my full satisfaction.

If you think I am going to 'stay safe' knowing that John and Greg and others could be killed by Moriarty's people, then you don't know me at all.

Beware the Ides of March indeed !! The black market Faberge eggs--they were actually drones. Your local intel was inadequate.

Three of the inner circle dealt with. Daniela is handling the rest.

Am leaving today from Paris as planned but taking a job on cruise ship leaving for Istanbul. Some loose ends there.

 

**March 26**

Anatoli Lansky was indeed on the cruise ship as per my information. He has been turned.

See if the information he sends is accurate. If not-- his valet is our man and has his instructions to terminate the arrangement.

 

**March 28, 2014**

As if anything I could say would change your mind.  I’ll have a contact waiting in Istanbul. At least one of us should make sure that my baby brother doesn’t find himself at the bottom of the Black Sea.

I never thought you would give up.  But just as you won’t let anything happen to your people, I refuse to let anything happen to you.  Not if I can help it.

Looking into your intel, but keep your head down while on the ship.  Something isn’t right here, Sherlock. I’ll contact you soon.

Stay alert.

Mycroft

 

**< incoming radio message> Urgent**

Lansky is not to be trusted.

Get off the ship at Athens.

 

**March 30th**

It was a near thing. Offloaded at Athens. Making my way to Istanbul by road.

May be off radar for the next four days.

Ask Theo to keep his team ready by then.

Large shipment may be departing from the port and it has to be held.

 

**April 3, 2014**

Lansky was picked up at the port of Kavala, currently being extradited back to London.  Preliminary reports place him as the contact for several other operatives.

Good job, brother mine.  I'll forward you the list of his associates when we retrieve the information.

I can give you two days to discover which ship needs to be detained at Istanbul.  After that, we'll need more than a fake quarantine to stop trade. You have fresh currency and Turkish papers waiting at the Aleph Hotel.  

London seems intolerably quiet without you.

Be careful,

Mycroft

 

**April 4**

Fishing vessel STS 50. Flying many flags but human trafficking from Indonesia. Moran's key people in crew at this time.

Got the papers and currency from Tariq.

Moving towards Kabul now. May be off the radar again.

 

**April 16**

Dr. Sadat would have informed you already. Lost three men to the landmine.

My injuries were minor.... considering

Able to sit up and write today after a week.

You should enjoy the quiet in London while you can.

Is my violin still at Baker Street?

 

**April 17, 2014**

If you truly believe that, baby brother, I should have you removed from duty for your own safety.  Clearly it would be a sign that you'd hit your head harder than Dr. Sadat realized.

No, strike that.  

For a week, I've had no word, save for the vague assurance that you were alive.  And I can't explain to you the relief that you're safe. Or the equally undefinable sense of wrongness that I'm not there.  Yes, I'm certain you'll have nothing but acerbic wit for my moment of sentiment, but given the number of times I've sat by your hospital bed, it seems fundamentally wrong not to be there now.

Be careful, Lock.  You're the only brother I have, and I would prefer to keep you around a while longer.

Your violin is currently sitting safely in your room at Baker Street, and I am making certain your rent is being paid.  I think Mrs. Hudson is enjoying the idea that I'm so utterly shattered by your death that I can't bring myself to venture into the apartment.  

Hold at your current position until Dr. Sadat has cleared you for travel.  

Be careful,

Mycroft

 

**April 19**

I thought you would be happy to finally not have to sit by my bedside at any hospital.

Probably had enough for a lifetime, didn't you?

Isn't John staying at Baker Street any more?

 

**April 22**

Leaving for Karachi via Peshawar. May take a ship to Sudan. Some of the ISIS operatives are his men.

Ask your ground team to keep suitable clothes ready for me.

And don't forget the anti malarials.

 

**April 25, 2014**

I would.  Provided you were also not in said hospital.  I'm not going to attempt to explain, brother mine.  Suffice it to say, I'm grateful you're still with us.

We've lost several agents in that region recently, believed to have defected to Moriarty's organization.  Someone has been very busy, and may also be aware of your presence. Any of our usual contacts could be compromised.

Get the information, and leave Sudan via Kassala.  Mr. William Scott will have a standing reservation on the first flight out of the country.

Dr. Watson has chosen to relocate to a new flat.  Somewhere, I would assume, less mired in memories.  It's been four months, Sherlock, and he believes you're dead.  The living must continue their lives-- we knew this was the risk of this assignment.  It's why we'd hoped it wouldn't come to it.

When this is over, we'll set things right.

Be careful,

Mycroft

 

**April 30th**

Baker Street without John....well I guess at least he is alive and well.

If I do come back I am sure so will he.

Rafael and Stefan have been taken care of.

You need more cash in hands on the ground. None of these traitors have any loyalty to any cause except money. As easy to turn back to work for us as to turn away.

Can't trust anyone, needless to say. But you have always known that.

 

**May 8th**

Your imbeciles probably sent me spurious anti-malarials.

As you already know I am sure, I have been stuck in Sudan with fever for almost a week.

The vomiting and the hallucinations have made me very weak.

Mycroft.....if I am unable to complete this mission....... don't let John know what really happened.

I suppose you will have to let Molly know.

And take care of my violin. It was a gift from you after all. Best it goes back to you.

I know you prefer the piano but I know that you are rather good at playing this also.

Sherlock

 

 **< ****_password:_** **L** **O** **C** **K** ** >  
** **<** ** _10 May, 2014 - 12:04pm >  
_****_<_** **_1 file:  brother.mp3 (00:00:00-02:42:12) >  _** **PLAY?**

"Brother mine,

You hold in your hands the phone we were developing before your hasty departure, I only wish it had been finished in time.  I'll spare you the lecture on how it's only to be used in the most dire emergencies. Yet, I still draw some comfort from the knowledge that, should this mission fail, you have some way to reach me.  

Now that that's out of the way... Close your eyes, Lock, and listen to me. This would be the purpose of the headphones I included in this package. I do hope Dr. Rosenberg's journey wasn't too arduous, he wasn't anticipating a last minute trip to Sudan.  

There, now do you have them?  Good.

Close your eyes-- yes, I'm certain you feel ridiculous, so you can spare rolling your eyes at me.  

Lock, you survived the withdrawal, and you will get through this.  However much it hurts now, it's temporary.. You will recover, and you will be strong again.  Losing you has never been an option, not for me. And even though I can't be there in the flesh-- I tried, but some things are impossible, even for me--  remember, that I'm doing everything in my power to keep you safe.

I won't lay a finger on your violin.  I spent years listening to you abuse it, and I have no desire to inflict any more suffering on it!  When you get home, brother, you can play for me yourself. We still have a duet we meant to learn, and I think it's been left in peace for far too long.  Clearly you must get better, or else my piano will continue to gather dust. You'd be appalled at how long it's been since I played.

A month ago, you said I must be grateful not to be sitting by your hospital bed.  It was a ridiculous statement then, and continues to be. Do you remember when you were four, and I contracted the measles?  You were sent away to stay with our aunt, and I remember you screaming from the foyer that you didn't want to go.

Even as a small child you understood that we were stronger together.  I still believe that, even if we haven't always made it easy for each other.

The rest of this file is music.  Sentimental, perhaps, but I'm not there to see you pulling faces.  You always claimed that my music helped you rest during the withdrawal, and it certainly put you to sleep as a child.  We'll see if Nuvole Bianche has the same effect over a recording.

Now rest, and be good for the doctor.  You will simply have to be fine, because I refuse to allow any other option.  I...

Lock... I've sat through your funeral once. And that is once too many.  You'll have to get better, and get this job finished, so you can come home.  

London is impossibly grey without you."

 

**May 14th**

Mycie,

What was that atrocious piece of music you played for me ?? Perhaps it is best that your piano gathers dust ....

Did you WANT me to have more hallucinations from that cacophony?

Mummy needs to get a refund from your teacher!

........is what I would have said to you a week ago.....but it is only fair to inform you that I have written three drafts of this letter and discarded them.

Listening to your voice had an unexpected effect on my Mind Palace, much more so than the music in fact.

It seems to have opened some doors which were perhaps locked for a reason but I am still too weak to push them back into place.

You ask me if I remember the four year old boy who cried in anguish at being separated from you ?

But what if I ask you when you stopped being able to hear that boy crying for you when you left him?

Home became impossibly grey without you ...and when I followed you to London I still couldn't find Mycie., although I met Mycroft, the British Government, rather more often than I desired.

I am sealing this and sending it with Mahmoud before I realize what a maudlin letter I have written. I will have started on my way to  Morocco by the time you get this. I may need a passage to Brazil from there.

Do me a kindness and never ever refer to this letter again because once I recover from my illness I am certainly not going to want to be reminded....!

And keep my violin carefully. I will come back for it.

Not soon I think, but someday.

Sherlock

 

**May 18, 2014**

Brother mine,

For what little comfort it might bring, know that you aren't the only one finding himself writing and rewriting their letters.  It's a strange feeling to send a note out into the world, hoping that it arrives where you will be, before you are. And I will forgive your maudlin sentiments if you can forgive mine.

I can't answer your question without referring to your letter, and at first, it seemed that might be a blessing.  An excuse to avoid answering. I have four variations of this letter currently crumpled in my wastepaper basket, all filled with very useful information about the state of things in Brazil, and the names of your contacts there.  Information I will include in this letter, of course-- it is important.

But you are not merely an agent in my employ.  You're my brother, and that changes everything.  

This letter may be consigned to the bin as well, but perhaps honesty will serve me better than detachment has.

I was almost sixteen, and leaving for university.  There were expectations for what I would do with my life.  And surely, as an adult, you can understand why I couldn't remain in Sussex, waiting for you to be old enough to leave home yourself.  

I don't believe either of us anticipated the separation to be so difficult.  I wrote, every week; but as the radio silence continued, I began to fear that you would never forgive me for leaving.  Some measure of it was my own guilt, I'm sure. I despised Cambridge, and most of my classes. I'd gone with the hope that there would be a challenge for my mind, and I could return to Hartfield with wonderful things to tell you.

Maybe it was too optimistic.  But I was young, and swiftly proven wrong.

I missed you terribly.  You were the only person who understood my mind, but you were furious with me, and a child.  I couldn't burden you with my problems. The seven years between us seemed like more when we were younger.

I was struggling with myself.  And sides of myself that I didn't know how to make peace with.  It seemed easier to keep people at arm's reach, but Lockie, please believe me--

I never intended you to be one of them.  

Be careful,

Mycroft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We always love to hear from you, so definitely swing down into the comments for chat about our favourite dysfunctional brothers!
> 
> 1\. Mata Hari was a presumed spy during WWI  
> (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mata_Hari)
> 
> 2\. Fishing vessels and human trafficking information  
> (http://complianceandethics.org/human-trafficking-in-the-supply-chain/)
> 
> 3\. Nuvole Bianche, the piece Mycroft is playing, is by Ludovico Einaudi  
> (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4VR-6AS0-l4)


	2. In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The six thousand miles between London and Sao Paulo offer the Holmes brothers a little clarity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's something wonderfully exciting about second chapters. You know a little about what's happening, and get to see a bit more of the story unfold (I think, anyway!)   
> The chapter title is from Elizabeth Barrett Browning's 'Sonnet 43'.
> 
> As always, footnotes are at the end of the chapter. But for readers that haven't heard of the Trolley Problem (to save you skimming to the bottom, and then jumping back to the top!) it's a thought problem in ethics.
> 
> You see a runaway trolley moving toward five tied-up people lying on the tracks. You are standing next to a lever that controls a switch. If you pull the lever, the trolley will be redirected onto a side track and the five people on the main track will be saved. However, there is a single person lying on the side track. You have two options:
> 
> 1\. Do nothing and allow the trolley to kill the five people on the main track.  
> 2\. Pull the lever, diverting the trolley onto the side track where it will kill one person.
> 
> Which is the more ethical option?

**June 2nd**

Mycroft,

By now you would have  heard about the prison breakout and the gunfight that broke out in Sao Paulo. Buses on fire, riots, all of that.

As you have probably always known, and I am finding out more starkly than ever before, there is a very large grey zone between innocent civilians and those complicit with organized crime. PCC has definite ties with Moriarty's web but the three core leaders were eliminated in the gunfight.

I have found a safe house and a loyal family and intend to stay here for a few weeks to regain some strength and to gather information on the connections with the Middle Eastern arms dealers and , as I have been informed reliably, even with the triads in Taiwan.

Ana has shared here insightful research from the political science department and Paolo will stay in touch with you about my next stop and the flights needed.

Sherlock

Mycie,

I am trying to follow your  example and compartmentalize the different parts of me. Yes, I know that Sherlock and Lockie share the same transport but it is probably no surprise to you that they occupy very different spaces in the Mind Palace.

You have a permanent ( and prominent) place in both their Mind Palaces, of course.

I have re-read your letter so many times that it is falling to pieces in my hands now. I learnt the content at the very first reading of course but I am appalled to say that it is only now that I am fully grasping the fact that yes, you were also just a vulnerable young boy being sent out into the world swimming with goldfish.

I felt utterly abandoned and missed you like a limb had been torn away but at least I had the comfort of being home and in a safe place.

You were alone.

As I am now.

And I want to ask you to forgive me now for not being able to forgive you then.

Do you know that I really believed you could do anything ? You always knew more than anyone , you always understood  me better than anyone. So it felt like the most enormous betrayal because I thought you wanted to go away and you didn't care that I was being left behind.

Then when you did come back during the holidays, you kept telling me 'Caring is not an advantage'.

Of course I interpreted that to mean me. I never imagined that there was anything or anyone other than me at the centre of your universe ! That what you were telling me was ---Caring for _me_ was not an advantage for _you_.

But enough of this for now. Someday we will talk about who broke your heart enough to make you believe that.

Today, there is something I need to say before I seal this and send it to you.

I may be your Lockie but right now I am also your agent against Moriarty. Remember the trolley problem. The greater good.

I will not be able to live in peace if I find out that in trying to save me you have condemned John, Greg or Mrs. Hudson.

So, although I never expected to have to be the one to remind you ---caring is not an advantage.

We are playing an impossible game against a web of ruthless criminals.

Bring your best play to it Mycie or it would all have been for nothing.

Your

Sherlock

 

**June 7, 2014**

Brother mine,

As difficult as that lesson may be to learn, try not to judge them too harshly.  Scared people make rash decisions on fragments of information; most of them would do anything to stop feeling helpless.  For all our evolution, and our great minds, there is still some primitive part of our brains that remembers huddling in a cave for warmth.  Fire brought safety then, even though it could come at a cost. For many frightened people, getting involved with organized crime seems much the same.

I, however, am not one of those people.

You are my brother, and will always see more of me than other people.  Even should I try to hide, you are more than perceptive enough to read between the lines.  We all have tells, and you have been searching out mine since you were born. But rest assured, what softness you find in my letters is for you, and your eyes, alone.

As I promised, I still have your friends under surveillance; but in the last six months, there has been no sign of danger.  No reason to get overconfident, but for now, they're safe.

I'm certain you're enjoying your time in South America, brother mine, but we've had some disturbing reports from Russia recently.  Five of our agents have gone missing, and there have been several sightings of your old friend Stefan from Sudan. Apparently he wasn't as dead as you believed.  He seems to be surrounding himself with several former members of Moriarty's organization, and potentially attempting to seize control of the syndicate while things are still fragmented.

There's a strange thing in letters.  Unless I mention it, you'd have no way to know that I've been sitting here at my desk for half an hour, struggling for words.  It's cold and grey today, with dark clouds that threaten rain; and I find myself pricked by memories. Call it nostalgia, or sentiment, but we used to be able to talk so easily.  I miss it.

But there's nothing to forgive.

You were a child, and it was my responsibility to make sure you understood that I didn't want to leave you.  And however good my intentions were? You still felt abandoned, and so I failed. Perhaps I should be grateful to have the chance to set the record straight.

You have been the centre of my world since you came into it.

And caring for you has been my constant from the day Mummy tried to explain that babies were miracles delivered by storks.  Remember that, Lockie. I have always cared for you, and I always will.

I'm only sorry I ever let you doubt that.

Be careful,

Mycroft

 

**June 15th**

Mycroft,

It is good to know that all are safe in London.

I should never have trusted the reports on Stefan. Unlike Jim, I never saw his dead body myself.

The safe house in Sao Paulo seemed to have been compromised so I did actually move sooner than anticipated.

Your letter had to track me down while I was moving and thus the delay.

I am in Panama now, gathering information on the drug cartels.

Yes, I am clean, don’t worry, and I will be ready to leave from here by the time this letter reaches you. As soon as I hear back from you, I will leave for Moscow if you need me to.

Or I could go to Taiwan as I was planning to.

Sherlock

Mycie,

I wonder if it is a sign of schizophrenia that I find myself compelled to use a different identity with you when I think of you as my brother. _My_ brother.

I think one of the reasons I felt so betrayed when you left was the shattering of the illusion that you were only mine. That you belonged to me in a way that no one else could lay claim to.

Because suddenly it seemed as though the entire world had expectations from you, and they became a priority.

In retrospect I probably had an identity crisis then since I really couldn’t figure out who I was. It’s a bit like the solar system (and thanks to John’s constant tutoring on this I do finally know that the earth revolves around the sun!). You were my Sun. And when you left, I had no orbit, no purpose. Perhaps that is why I found the drugs so attractive.

But we have come too far along now to dwell on these old sorrows.

I laughed out loud when you wrote about Mummy trying to tell you the stork brought babies. Seriously?! But you were all of seven years old by then and already reading 6th grade textbooks, so I do hope you explained to her the biological facts behind it!!

You may be interested  (?) in knowing that I have shaved my hair off and pierced my ears. It does make me look very different but helps me blend in much better. I was able to pass off as a shaman during my passage through Brazil. You know I do enjoy a bit of drama and this gave me the ideal opportunity for being undercover while indulging!

Don’t worry, I am constantly aware of the seriousness of the mission.

You know I rarely seek the company of others but I find that it was easier to keep the black moods away when Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and John, goldfish though they may be, offered some distraction from the noise in my head.

Of course no one has ever been able to make those noises quiet the way you could.

When Professor Rosa delivers this letter she will also share with you by Bluetooth a short audio clip from her phone.

It will tell you all I need to convey.

Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love to you all, and come swing down into the comments to chat with us! We love knowing what you're thinking!
> 
> 1\. Brazil’s PCC is a criminal group  
> (https://brazilian.report/society/2018/06/19/brazil-pcc-multinational-criminal/)
> 
> 2\. The Trolley Problem is a thought experiment in ethics.  
> You see a runaway trolley moving toward five tied-up (or otherwise incapacitated) people lying on the tracks. You are standing next to a lever that controls a switch. If you pull the lever, the trolley will be redirected onto a side track and the five people on the main track will be saved. However, there is a single person lying on the side track. You have two options:
> 
> 1\. Do nothing and allow the trolley to kill the five people on the main track.  
> 2\. Pull the lever, diverting the trolley onto the side track where it will kill one person.
> 
> Which is the more ethical option?  
> (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trolley_problem)
> 
> 3\. The piece of music Sherlock sends to Mycroft is inspired by ‘I Miss You’ from the Goblin OST  
> (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jJljoC5XbXg)


	3. That you've been waiting for me, when no one else does

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Holmes brothers grow closer, a darker shadow is gathering in the wings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to every who's taken the time to comment! We love hearing what you think, and your theories about what's happening (honestly, it just makes our day!)
> 
> The chapter title is taken from Konstantin Simonov's poem, "Wait For Me".

**June 18, 2014**

It was an unfortunate oversight, but even you can't predict everything, brother mine. The important thing now is to deal with him before he can cause any more trouble.  Be on guard, he's already feigned his death once, and he's gaining followers rapidly.

What is it about returning from the dead that makes goldfish want to revere you?  I have no interest in martyrdom, so kindly keep yourself alive and well.

You can sort out Taiwan after you've put Stefan out of our inconvenience.  Both are important, but I have an uncomfortable suspicion that leaving Stefan to his own devices will cause us more trouble in the long term.  And even more so if we allow him to amass an army first.

I'll send your new identity papers with Emily, and I would suggest you brush up your Russian in the meanwhile.

I've been thinking about your question for some time.  What would I do in the case of the trolley. And I'm not certain I've come up with an answer that satisfies me.  The question is binary, and demands an equally binary answer.

Of course, the obvious answer is that I save the five; even if it was my hand on the lever, and my choice to murder the single person on the other track.  

But if that person was you?  

Lock, I'm not certain I could live with that.  It may be the most selfish thing I would ever do, condemning people to save you; but I believe I could live with blood on my hands.  So long as it wasn't yours.

Not the answer you wanted?  I did say it was unsatisfying.  And in the end, I'm not entirely sure it's accurate.  After all, it would depend on who the other five people were, as well.  Still, rest assured, I have no intention of letting your friends be tied to any tracks.

It feels strange that you could doubt something that has always been so obvious to me.  Whether we're in the same city, or not, Lockie-- you will always have a claim over me.  You're my blood, and the other half of my brain.  

Distance has no power over that.  If you believe nothing else, let it be that.

Yes, Mummy did try to tell me that!  I thought it was ridiculous, so went to find my own answers.  I remember trying to explain it to you when you were small, and probably making quite a hash of it!  Storks, indeed... At least I know I did better than that.

I've trying to picture you in all your shamanic dressings, and I'm not certain my imagination is quite up to the challenge!  I'm surprised you didn't sunburn your head, it's been protected by your mop for so long.

Professor Rosa just came in with your music.  I won't pretend to guess where you managed to track down a violin on your travels, but it's beautiful.  

I hadn't realized how much I miss hearing you play.  

For the last six months you've never been far from my thoughts, and I've read and re-read your letters until the edges have started to wear.  I hope this one finds you safe.

I miss you, Lockie.  The city echoes without you here.

Be careful,

Mycroft

PS: I forgot to mention, I ran into Inspector Lestrade yesterday.  It was the strangest thing; I think he was genuinely concerned about how I've been coping with your loss.  It was an unexpected relief, to know that someone doesn't blame me for your death.

 

**June 20**

Mycroft,

What is the use of being a genius if I can’t predict everything?! I have a bad sense of unease about Stefan.

Yes I will brush up on my Russian and be on my way to Moscow by the time this reaches you.

I have sent a message to Nickolai already. Just waiting for Emily to reach with the papers.

Sherlock

Mycie,

I looked rather fetching as a shaman it seems, considering the number of men and women who wanted to follow me into my tent afterwards! At least it did not appear that any of them were unwell and in need of any cure.

Professor Rosa’s team was also rather impressed when they came to ‘interview’ me for their ethnographic research on shamanistic rituals among the tribes of Brazil. For obvious reasons we did not take a photograph to share with you so will have to use your imagination on this one!

One of her team members was a student from China and a wonderful violinist herself. I borrowed her instrument to record the tune for you.

I have been thinking about your response to the trolley problem and, while not a distraction, it is giving me a new perspective on so many things between us that I had not deduced earlier. I know I asked you to keep the others safe and sacrifice me if you have to. But after reading your reply I wondered if I would actually be able to follow my own advice? If I had to kill you to save others? If I had to shoot you to save myself even?

Logic and evolution would state that self- preservation is above all else.

But what if there is no separation between yourself and another? What if without you there is no me?

It is ironic that it has taken a distance of a million miles and an actual ‘death’ and so many near- misses after that to make me aware that we are in fact an inseparable part of each other.

You say that I will always have a claim over you? At some level I have always known that. Demanded it even.

Although I don’t fully understand what that means even now but when I think of you alone in an echoing city, missing me, well, selfish and even cruel as it sounds, that is what I want.

I don’t want you belonging to anyone else. I want you for me and me alone.

The way we were before you left home. Mine.

I am not good with emotions so I will wait for you to explain to me-- what is this feeling that causes such an ache inside me when I think of you and yet I do not want to be without it.

It was easier earlier when my interaction with you had a known path of antagonism. But having opened the doors to this new space between us I find myself loathe to return to the way we were.

Why did we put this distance between us Mycie? Did something happen that I have deleted?

I worry if these sentiments are only a result of the separation and the stress. After all, the goldfish do say that distance makes the heart grow fonder.

If my return would make us go back to the way we were….is it wrong to consider that I would rather stay here instead and write these letters to you?

I must finish this letter and seal it soon since the runner will be arriving for it, so I shall leave these selfish musings for another day.

You mentioned meeting Lestrade. Truly he is one of the very few good people in this world, as I am beginning to realize even more acutely. I do hope to have a chance to meet him myself someday too….even if not soon. Clearly not very soon at all….

This unfinished business with Stefan makes me more uncomfortable than anticipated.

I am sitting here recalling all the Russian you taught me, sitting in our library back home. Gorky, Pushkin and all those Chekhov plays. You always did have a morbid streak even as a child!

And from all that literature and poetry, do you know what comes to me, unbidden?

This poem by Simonov that you used to read out. ‘Wait for me.’

I suppose you would say that there are no coincidences and the universe is rarely so lazy? Well if so, then this poem is my message to you today.

Yours,

Sherlock

 

**June 29, 2014**

Brother mine,

I’m sorry it’s taken longer than expected for this message to reach you.  Despite our best efforts, it’s always been notoriously difficult to get word to our operatives in Russia; a problem that’s carried over to you, now.  I am working on a solution, but for the moment, the older and slower methods are more reliable.

We know that Stefan has set up his base somewhere near Yekaterinburg, but there’s a wide discrepancy in our information on how many people has has working under him.  Err on the side of caution, little brother-- Stefan is dangerous, and won’t take kindly to you meddling in his affairs for the second time.

No unnecessary risks, Sherlock.  Even my power there is limited, and I’m not certain if we could extract you quickly if things went sour.  Keep yourself safe, I don’t care to test the limits of my influence while you’re in danger.

I’m sure you made a charming shaman, but I’m less certain I want to hear about the revolving door you apparently installed in your tent.  Leaving a trail of broken hearts is hardly keeping a low profile, you realize.

Thank you for that mental image, right before I have a meeting with the Turkish ambassador.  I hope you were careful, brother mine-- the last thing this assignment needs is a collection of very small Holmes children following it.  It’s quite complicated enough as it is.

You’re going to drive yourself mad with that line of thinking, Lock.  Perhaps the trolley problem is better applied to the goldfish, and their linear, black and white thinking.  We know the world is made of many more shades of grey, and the rest is only speculation. Neither of us can ever be entirely certain what we would do in a situation like that.

But losing you?  I don’t believe I could.  At the risk of sounding sentimental and foolish (such things happen in old age, or so I’m told)?

You are more vital to me than my heart, or my brain.  And a lifetime without you sounds more like vivisection.  I wouldn’t be able to let you die. Not if there was a single iota of a chance to save you.

And you should be happy, you have your wish.  I am, in fact, trapped in the city and missing you.  Apart from last weekend where I was trapped at our parent’s.  Keeping up appearances, and reassuring them that you’re safe and well.  

I’m certain by now you’ve noticed me skirting around your revelations.  

I don’t think anything happened to us, Lock.  Just time, and a distance. We’ve both said things we later regretted, but never found the words to apologize for.  These conversations are long overdue, but perhaps that’s better than never having them at all. It’s strange, but in some ways I feel closer to you now than I have for years.

Ironic.

And if I could explain those emotions to you, perhaps I could explain them to myself as well!  

Being close to you, claimed by you, never felt strange when we were children.  It was the most natural thing in the world, and so I never questioned it. It never occurred to me to deny you my bed when you were scared, or my time when we were awake.  Just as you never went to our parents for answers to your million questions. It was our definition of normal.

Meeting other children, and going to university, made me realize how strange that was.  Other brothers weren’t close as we were; and they didn’t miss each other as desperately as I missed you.  The only conclusion I could draw was that there was something wrong with loving you the way I did.

I didn’t want to hurt you, or stop you (however accidentally, I swear it) from growing into your own person.  I wanted you to be happy.

You don’t need to remind me to wait for you.   I know things between us have been difficult in the past, but however unlikely the circumstances?  We have a chance to make amends for those mistakes. My place is with you, Lockie-- always.

This assignment can’t go on forever, and I refuse to accept that I may never see you again.  

With hope,

Your Mycroft

 

**< incoming radio message> Urgent**

Shooting at Whitehall.  M injured, in surgery.

Will message when I have more information.

-Anthea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're only a little bit sorry for leaving it on a cliffhanger, but rest assured we have no intention of leaving it that way for too long! 💙


	4. This is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart. I carry your heart (I carry it in my heart)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a few hours can change everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! As you'll see from the beginning, this chapter is a little different from the others! Hopefully this makes up for the evil cliffhanger last time!
> 
> Also, the title for this chapter comes from E.E. Cumming's wonderful poem "i carry your heart with me".

Thornfield.

The great Victorian edifice that Mycroft had inherited from their Uncle Rudy at his death.  Even in the night, the warm 18th century bricks felt solid and real, the tangible weight of the sprawling stately home spread across acres of sparsely tended grounds.

In the dark, the vast panels of collections of high, narrow windows seemed to have a life of their own-- and they watched Sherlock guardedly as he approached the house.

For the first time in seven months, Sherlock Holmes was back on his home soil. But the bitter July wind seemed unsure if it intended to welcome him, or blow him back towards the sea.

Sherlock neared the enormous door at the entrance and slowly placed his hand flat against it, grounding himself. Allowing his skin to feel the familiar texture and to accept that this was real!

He was here, in England. Alive.

In less than two hours he would see Mycroft.  _ His Mycie. _

He would be able to look upon his face instead of bringing forth Mind Palace Mycie every night to soothe him to sleep, and every day to argue with him, or to hold counsel.

He felt a frisson of excitement which was replaced almost instantly by a shiver of panic.

_ What if they ended up arguing and fighting ? What if he lost the new Mycie who was so tender and caring and who belonged to him so completely that he could almost forget where one ended and the other began....What if those feelings were possible only on paper? What if this was a bad idea? _

_ What would he say to him? What if there were no words left to say what he wanted him to know? _

_ What  _ _ did _ _ he want him to know? _

He went in and found his old room by almost by instinct, not wanting to switch on any lights or light any candles which would draw attention for miles around. He sat on the bed, taking a deep breath, remembering happier days spent in this house.

Then he settled in to wait.

It felt like forever, the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corridor marking out the passing time.  The hour came with a ringing toll, eight the first time-- and nine the next-- reminding Sherlock of every precious second that was slithering away.  The ticking was a hateful sound; a miserable, incessant thing that burrowed into the dusty silence of the house. 

Nobody had lived here properly in years; and though the staff kept things clean and functioning, it had a desolate, forgotten air about it.  Ten generations of Holmeses in oils on the walls, and fixtures that had been updated at the turn of the century (and the invisible electrics and plumbing that their uncle had replaced the year before Mycroft was born).  

It was a sad house, their mother had always said.  A waiting house, craving a family to fill it again.  And what a lovely place it would be, she'd hinted (again, and again, and again) to raise a family.

Outside, the wind whistled and shot through the grounds, searching out chinks in the window panes and burrowing draftily inside.  It smelled of approaching rain, and the starless sky was black and clotted with clouds-- but neither wind, nor rain, could blot out the sound of tires crunching on the gravel drive.

Exhausted beyond endurance, Mycroft gripped the door of his car and levered himself out of the vehicle.  "I'll call you if I need anything, Williams.. Have a good evening." He dismissed his loyal driver, and tried to ignore the weighted feeling in his chest; tight with pain and anxiety.  

How dare Anthea message his brother?  Now he'd have to write him, and find a messenger to take the letter to Sherlock in Russia, immediately.  How could she worry his Sherlock like that?

Sherlock heard the car arrive and the door open. Then the car left, almost purring quietly down the long driveway.

His heart was beating so loudly he was surprised Mycie couldn’t hear it. He felt a bit faint with anxiety. He had to remember to breathe.  _ Was he going to have a panic attack? _

He remembered the ambush they had faced on the outskirts of Kabul some months ago and he hadn’t thought twice about jumping into the danger zone. But today? The ten steps down the passage to face his brother seemed like a Herculean task.

_ What if this went spectacularly wrong? _ They had already gone from an extremely close relationship as children to a fraught and almost cold one as adults.

The separation and the constant sense of impending loss in the past few months had brought them closer together again. Far closer than they had been ever been.

Sherlock pondered that.  _ How can you say you are ‘close’ to someone who is essentially a part of you? _

The moments after he had heard Anthea’s message, his world had fallen apart.

He had sent Mycie Simonov’s poem just days earlier, asking him to wait for him. Assuming that Mycie was safe in London.

Missing him, yes. Alone, yes. Worried, yes of course.

But safe. Protected by his own Secret Service and the British Government.

Sherlock was the one courting danger, flirting with death, praying to all the gods old and new, that he would return to his … _ his brother… ?  _

_ Or his other half ? _

His better half. For sure. His infinitely better half.

He had never, in his wildest nightmares, imagined that  Mycroft would be the one in danger and that he would be the one anxiously waiting for good news.

And now, when Mycroft was separated from him by only a few feet instead of a few continents, his feet seemed to be made of lead and he was unable to close the distance.

Then he heard footsteps, cautious and quiet, come up the stairs. Mycroft was coming to his old room, preferring to maintain the cover of darkness too.

He stood up and took a deep breath.

It was the moment of reckoning. And let the chips fall where they may.

The wait between letters had always seemed to drag out with impossible cruelty; checking the mail each morning, only to find the usual collection of notices and notes.  Nothing in Sherlock's familiar, scrawling hand. Mycroft wasn't waiting for confirmation that this interminable nightmare was over-- every new report came with the cold reminder that Moriarty had used his lifetime to create a web worthy of the spider.  It would take more than a few months to dismantle it.

No, he waited for the silent, ink-and-paper reminder that his brother was still alive.  And even for a man as patient as Mycroft, the waiting had become torture.

Ignoring the lights in favour of his dark thoughts, Mycroft made his way slowly through the house, his skin prickling with every draft that escaped through the old windowpanes and whitened his breath with a chill fog.  One more thing he would have to see to, one more thing to add to the endless list. 

His gait was slow, hitching when he drew too deep a breath and it pulled on the stitches that laced across his shoulder.   _ Distracted and blind in your old age, Mycroft Holmes.  You didn't even notice the gunman until it was too late. _

But as Mycroft reached the top of the stairs, his thoughts elsewhere-- mentally composing a letter to Sherlock, promising that he was fine-- the elder of the two men realized that he wasn't alone.  

The bare illumination through the window did nothing to hide a face that Mycroft would know anywhere.  Sharp cheekbones and recently shorn curls, and  _ no... no no.. it wasn't possible-- _ **** _ Sherlock was--   _ He blinked hard, and passed the back of his hand across his eyes, trying to banish the illusion.

It remained.  Stubborn and stuck in front of him, denying the impossible and making Mycroft's heart hammer painfully against his ribs.

" _ Sherlock? _ "

_ Was it the blood loss or the medicines? _ Mycroft wasn’t sure….but the hallucination was all too real as that beloved face moved closer, an anxiety in those eyes, coupled with an emotion he had never seen in it yet.

Sherlock moved closer, slowly, tentatively, as though the space between them was too fragile and one or both of them would shatter if it was crossed.

He stood a few feet away from Mycroft finally, never taking his eyes off that face. His dreams and longings of the past few months made flesh and blood.

He could make out that Mycroft was holding his left shoulder a bit stiffly and his own breath hitched at the realization. The bullet may well have found its way to his heart. His knees almost gave way at the stark realization of how close he had come to losing Mycroft…forever.

So many years of anger and unhappiness between them….so many harsh words said and unsaid…..

So many…feelings. There was no other word for it. All those years of chanting ‘emotions are a chemical defect’… ‘caring is not an advantage’... and here he stood.

Head over heels in love.

For this  _ was _ love wasn’t it?

He had eventually figured it out for himself. This was the source of poetry and art and unbearable sadness…as well as joy.

This was agony and ecstasy and the meaning of life.

He stood here today, with no purpose for his existence that he could imagine beyond loving this man.

Mycie.  His Mycie.  Only his Mycie.

He reached out and touched his cheek. Slowly. Softly.

‘Mycie?’ He whispered.

When there was no response he came closer.

“Mycie? It’s me.” He gave a shy smile and ruffled his own hair. “My hair hasn’t quite grown back fully yet. I probably look really different…..”

The house had always seemed too wide, and too echoing; an empty void that had once been filled with the sounds of the Holmes family.  Now, it seemed suddenly like the walls were closing around him, and Mycroft could scarcely believe what his eyes were telling him. It had been midwinter when Sherlock had left the country; and all through the long cold, and the wet spring, Mycroft had worried for him, and wondered what he would say when they were together again.

Sherlock had always been the other half of him-- a little piece of his mind and soul that had taken up residence in another body.  He was contrary and mercurial, and brilliant in a way that Mycroft had never been able to fully predict. 

And now he was here, and he didn't know what to say.

"Sherlock...  _ My Lock _ ...  You're.."  The words escaped when his brother's cold fingers ghosted tentatively across his cheek, leaving the touch memory of closeness and the tingling awareness that this was  _ real _ .  

Before Mycroft could mangle any more words, he reached out with both arms and pulled his little brother in hard against his aching chest, long fingers curling into the familiar roughness of his wool coat to better anchor them together.  

It was a sheer miracle that both of them were still standing. It seemed utterly unreal that they were in each others' arms.

A mere seven months, three days and 18 hours since they last set eyes upon each other. A ridiculously small amount of time in the cosmic expanse but they had covered a distance of a lifetime in it....

Sherlock let out a bone deep sigh as his entire body melted against this too too solid flesh against him.

There were no words , no thoughts even, that could describe the sheer right-ness of this moment. The aching desire fulfilled. The painful longing of his empty arms filled with the warm , living breathing body of the one thing that was holding him together......... and tearing him apart.

" Mycie" he breathed out. "Oh Mycie!"

And before any coherent thought could emerge, he had pulled back a little, and kissed him on the lips. Delicately, like the caress of a feather.

His entire body was trembling with terror and anticipation.  _ Would Mycroft push him away? Was this too much too soon? _

But every fibre of his being was screaming for this contact. In fact he wanted more. A sudden fierce hunger was roaring inside him.

He was sure Mycroft could see it in his eyes as he pulled back once again, reluctantly, and looked at him.

Seven months.  Three days. Eighteen hours.  And Sherlock felt different in his arms when they closed around him; he was stronger than when he'd left, and when Mycroft curled his fingers against the back of his head, cradling him close, the dark hair was short and fuzzy instead of the thick curls from before.

But for all the changes, he was still Sherlock, and Mycroft would know him anywhere.  

He knew the racing, too fast cadence of his heart as it beat against his own.  The catching, tripping sound of his breath, and the way it felt against the side of his neck.  

And he knew the sharp, lanky angles when Sherlock collapsed against him, trusting his brother to hold his weight.  There were things it would take longer than seven months to forget. Mycroft didn't think seven decades. Centuries.  Would be enough.

Kissing him was the most natural thing in the world.  

"Shh.. Lockie, dearest, breathe."  He reminded him gently when Sherlock had pulled away, the warmth of his kiss still lingering on Mycroft's mouth, making his skin tingle.  For a moment, Mycroft looked into his brother's eyes, searching for some confirmation of guilt. Remorse.

And found only a heat that made his own breath catch.  They had to talk about this. Didn't they?

"I love you."  

Those were the only words he needed before he met Sherlock halfway in another breathless kiss.

_ Breathing was truly boring  _ Sherlock thought as they had to finally emerge from their heated kiss.

He licked his lips, still tasting of Mycroft.

No he couldn't stay away. Even for a few seconds. He didn't want to breathe any more, he decided as he moved in again and kissed his beloved, most beloved Mycie.

He had anticipated surprise, confusion, even a rebuke, perhaps a slap on the wrist.

Maybe some fond indulgence at the start ,because that is how Mycroft had always been with him. Allowing him all sorts of extravagant and insane things just because he was his baby brother. 

And so, after that first soft touch of their lips, he had steeled himself for rejection, for being told by Mycroft--Enough. This much and no more.

What he had never expected was the ferocious reciprocation, the sheer heat of the returning kiss.

His heart was hammering wildly now, fit to bursting out of his ribcage.

He wanted to shed his skin and enter Mycroft, become one with him, never leave even the distance of an atom between them.

Mycroft's hands were on his face, running down his back, gripping him at the hips and ...oh...was that...was he...was he also aroused?

Sherlock pressed himself closer , far closer and let Mycroft feel exactly what he wanted now. Absolutely needed now.

That he was hungry for him in an utterly agonizing way that made him feel as though he would burst into flames if he didn't get to feel more of Mycroft's skin against his own.

"Mycie, please." he said, almost in tears. "Please Mycie. I love you. I love you so much."

It was the impossible thing Mycroft had desperately wanted in their youth-- and the thing, out of love, he had savagely put out of his mind.  He couldn't hurt Sherlock like that, and couldn't risk him finding out. Couldn't lose him.

He'd promised himself that he would be strong enough to resist.  But this? 

Sherlock clutching to him, and even in the dark, Mycroft could see the brilliant tears pooling in the corners of Sherlock's too-bright eyes.  The same kaleidoscopic blue-green-grey that had stayed constant from childhood. 

For years they hadn't touched.  They'd created walls and moats from enforced inches; in one daring leap, Sherlock had kicked the barricades aside and they were both waiting for the rubble to fall.  

They'd been waiting since the letters started, and things had begun to  _ change _ .  Now the alchemy had spread to his own veins, running with quicksilver heat under his skin that burned and flashed with fresh desire at every touch.  

His head was spinning when Mycroft tenderly thumbed the tears from the corners of Sherlock's eyes, and ignored the blurring in his own.  "Don't.. Lockie, no. Don't plead with me." He managed to say, his voice sounding unsteady and breathless in his own ears, "I'm right here, you found me."  

Maybe they would both be damned for this.  

But at that moment, cupping Sherlock's cheeks in his cold hands and kissing the ragged words from his lips, Mycroft couldn't find it in his heart to care.  His Lock was here... that was the only thing that mattered.

“We found each other Mycie…and I don’t want to lose you again!” Sherlock was gasping as he kissed him. “You are mine. Mine! And I want you…I need you to…I have never done it before Mycie but I want to…….with you. Please Mycie, take me, make me yours…please…”

His trembling fingers were trying to undo the buttons on Mycroft’s waistcoat and unable to get any purchase on them. With a growl of desperation Sherlock almost ripped off his own shirt, buttons flying everywhere as he needed more skin contact, his hunger for his brother’s touch bubbling up like lava in his blood, making him incoherent.

_ How could something as simple as a kiss almost restructure his entire being? How could he ever stop kissing him? _

But he wanted more now…oh, so much more.

All the words in all those letters, all his music and poetry, all his dreams and imaginings………nothing could have prepared him for this….this feeling of his very soul being on fire with lust..….of this black hole of craving that had opened up in the midst of his chest.  

His head was spinning with desire and with the knowledge that despite all his fears and worries, Mycroft was not only not pushing him away but he also wanted this!

_ Why, why did have to wear so many layers of clothes?? _

A scattered trail of mother-of-pearl buttons followed the brothers as they stumbled, lurched-- with unsteady steps made clumsy by kisses-- towards the bedroom.  Mycroft wasn't entirely sure how they managed it; in his mind, the path from the staircase to his room was a blur of breathless kisses, and the simple, all-consuming need to be closer.

To feel Sherlock's heart hammering against his own ribs, without the layers of tweed and silk and the aching, endless miles between them.  

And it was madness, his beautiful, quixotic brother in his arms, pleading and demanding in turns, for the connection that Mycroft's entire being craved.  

_ Had this always been there?  Just waiting for them to realize their truth? _

With a rain of tiny waistcoat buttons, Mycroft fetched up against the side of the bed, propelled by his brother's insistent hands.  His heart ached for the broken entreaties falling from his brother's kiss reddened lips, lancing through his heart with tenderness. "Shh, shh.. dearest mine, you're not going to lose me."  

Gently, Mycroft cupped his brother's cheeks in his hands, the pads of his thumbs ghosting across sharp cheekbones and wiping away the moisture at the corners of his eyes, "I have been yours since the moment you were born."  He murmured, and pressed their foreheads together, closing the space between them, "You can't lose me, Lockie. It's not possible. For every moment of your life-'

Sentiment had never come easily to them.  It was too razor sharp, and cut too close to the bone.  Sentiment was the bleeding vulnerability that overflowed convention.  But Mycroft needed him to know.

His shaken smile was punctuated by a tremulous breath, and a hard swallow, Mycroft's fingers leaving his cheek to flatten, splayed, over Sherlock's chest.  "There's been a piece of me. Right here. I give it to you freely, and I don't want it back. If you believe nothing else, my Lockie.. remember that."

Sherlock’s brain was flooded with such wonder and joy as he could never have believed was possible. Mycroft….his powerful, perfect big brother, loved him back with as much fervour as he had discovered in his own heart.

He felt a fleeting ache at the years they had lost in sniping and squabbling when they could have had this… _ this  _ ….this …he was lost for words.

Was there a word that explained the ecstasy at the touch of his lips, the feel of his skin, the murmur of his voice, the smell….oh the smell of him….He nuzzled his neck and kissed him, taking in a deep breath as though to inhale his Mycie and keep him inside his ribcage forever, when the sharp tang of the antiseptic cream hit him.

The bullet! The wound!

The terrifying reminder of their dangerous lives and their inevitable mortality.

Sherlock felt as though he was drowning in emotions.

He stopped abruptly and pulled back.

“Oh Mycroft.” He said, his voice broken and ragged. “You say you have been mine from the moment I was born? I feel as though I have been born only from the moment I realized I was yours! Nothing that I have done before this matters…and nothing I do after this will matter. This …..you and me…this is the truth.”

Sherlock paused and took a deep breath. He touched Mycroft very carefully over his bandage and placed a soft kiss over it. Then slowly, gently, he undid all the buttons on Mycroft’s shirt and helped him shrug it off.

As they stood there in front of each other, Sherlock placed him own palm over Mycroft’s heart, and took his palm and placed it over his own. They were breathing in synchrony now.

“Time is fleeting Mycie” Sherlock murmured. “All too soon the sun will rise and we will have to part. If your wound will allow ….I would very much like you to make love to me.”

"With you, Lockie...  Not to you.  _ With you _ ."  

It was too soon, and too rushed.  The world was not always a kind place, and they had both known that, in the morning, Sherlock would have to go.  Moriarty's web was still too powerful, and neither of them could rest until they were safe.

But there was this.  

A perfectly imperfect few hours that they'd managed to steal for their own.  

The Holmes brothers had never believed in God or communion, but there was reverence in every grateful kiss.  Absolution in the way their bodies fit together, twined in bare flesh and gasping words of adoration breathed into each other's mouths.  For the first time in their adult lives-- 

For the first time since Mycroft had gone to university, and Sherlock had stopped crawling into his brother's bed for comfort--

They felt whole and complete.  Discovering that the lost and missing pieces of themselves had always been with the other.  

And when Mycroft fell asleep, his head pillowed on Sherlock's chest, and their bodies tangled together beneath the hopelessly knotted blankets, he could hear the steady thump of his heart.

Sherlock woke up three hours later. Never a regular one for sleeping, he was now unable to sleep any longer at a stretch ever since the Fall. Always on the run, always alert.

His first thought on waking up was a fleeting sense of panic as he couldn’t recognize where he was and who he was with.

The moment gave way sharply to a feeling of incandescent joy. These warm, sleep- heavy limbs tangled around him belonged to his beloved My.

That is what he was going to call him now.  _ Rather fitting _ , he thought.

_ Mycroft was the British Government. Mycie was his beloved older brother. But My? _

_ My… was his lover. His. His very own. His sweet agony and his desperate ecstasy. _

_ How had he lived without this all these years?? Had he lived at all in all these years?! _

_ He would stay in the blissful heaven of his arms till the end of days…. _

But within moments, the stark reality of their situation seeped into his awareness with cold fingers of dread.

_ He needed to leave. Now. Or they would both be in danger. Terrible danger. _

As much as he had been willing to sacrifice his life to save the others, just a scant seven months, three days and 22 hours ago, he wanted to stay alive now! He wanted to finish his work and come back to his beloved. To the sanctuary of his arms, to be able to sleep like this again, with Mycroft’s leg thrown over him, protective even in his sleep.

He smiled softly. He needed to stay safe and more than ever-- he needed Mycroft to stay safe.

Gently, very gently, he disentangled himself. He found another blanket because he could not move this one without disturbing Mycroft. He tucked him in from all sides.

Then he stood by the bed and looked at the sleeping face, that face which was his Sun, moon and stars.

He shuddered at the thought that if not for the Fall and their subsequent separation, they may never have had this! They may have sniped and squabbled their way to their graves, not knowing that paradise was just an arm’s length away.

He stepped away, quiet and agile as a cat in the shadows.

He found a letter paper and a pencil in Uncle Rudy’s study and wrote a short letter.

Dawn came early for Mycroft; with cold sheets, a terrible absence, and the blankets pulled up around his chin to chase away the grey morning chill.  His Sherlock, taking care of him, even when he couldn’t be there in the flesh.

_ My, _

_ What can I say now that you do not already know? _

_ What words can ever encompass how I feel about you? About us? _

_ I must leave now and take your heart with me, while leaving mine behind in your care. _

_ Keep it safe. It belongs to you. _

_ And My, I know you will overthink all this and be overcome with guilt and overwhelmed with worry. _

_ Please don’t be. _

_ This is more than I could have ever hoped for and yet it will never be enough! We will have more days and more nights of such bliss and hopefully more years together in which I can show you just how much I love you. _

_ I love you. _

_ I will be making my way to Russia now and will write to you, as before. _

_ Stay safe My. You belong to me. _

_ Yours, always yours, _

_ Lock _  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Times they are a'changing, and we'd love to hear what you thought of this! Much love to all of you!


	5. Parting is such sweet sorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Thornfield, nothing could be the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are on chapter five! We're going to try and update this twice a week, so keep an eye out on the weekends, and again to brighten up the midweek!
> 
> The title for this chapter comes from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet,
> 
> _Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing._  
>  _Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow,_  
>  _That I shall say good night till it be morrow._

**July 5, 2014**

My dearest Sherlock,

I hope this letter finds you in safe and in good health.  

Are those not the most terribly dry words?  Accurate, of course. But they do nothing to express how desperately I need them to be true.  I've searched for a better way to start this letter, but with my bin filling with discarded drafts, I suppose it will have to do.

There are so many things I want to tell you; things that would be unwise (at best, and utter madness at worst) to put down on paper.  And then I'm reminded that neither of us knows what the future will hold, and the alternative is to risk them remaining eternally unsaid.  

So I pick up the pen, and my mind goes blank, searching for the words I need and coming up empty handed.  

Forgive me, Lock, for not being able to do justice to how much I miss you.  As you rightly predicted, the space you've left empty has proven a perfect breeding ground for weeds.  

I don't blame you for leaving.  I'm not certain either of us could have managed to say goodbye.  Even now, I find myself watching the marks you left on my skin, and finding comfort in the reminder that this was real. You've always been the other half of me, Lock, but until now?  I'd been blind to what that meant.

Remember that I think of you always, and miss you in parts of my heart that I hadn't known existed.  Keep yourself safe, brother mine, and come back to me.

Yours,

My

 

**July 22, 2014**

I don't know if you received my last letter, or if you'll find this one.  But if you do, send me some word that you're alive.

Mikhail will be in Moscow until the end of the week, and Emilie will be in St Petersburg-- if you need help, they can get word to me.  

Please, Lockie, this silence is torture. You have to be alright.

\- M

 

**July 30th**

My,

Had to go deep undercover to enter the inner circles. Stefan is building up a large network and seems to be spending dollars like water.

Have found an underground network committed to stopping organized crime. Led by a woman whose name I cannot reveal but who is the younger sister of a former gang leader. Reminded me of Mummy when I first met her! Thank goodness Mummy never had access to Kalashnikovs ....

I feel more energetic and motivated than ever before My. I am more alert, more aware of my surroundings. Everything appears to be more colourful, more beautiful, even in this very bleak town at the outskirts of Moskva. Apparently love will do that to you.

Do not worry about me. I have even greater motivation to stay safe now because I need to come back to you.

I cannot even say I remember you with every beating of my heart, because you ARE the very beating of my heart.

Every road I take will lead me back to you. Someday. Somehow.

I may not be able to write much or at all for a few weeks but I will try to send word with Mikhail or Emilie.

Yours,

Lock

 

**August 4, 2014**

I'm not a praying man, brother mine, but if you disappear like that again, I may become one.  I'm not certain I've ever felt more relieved to see your atrocious scrawl on a piece of paper before.  

I've never known a fear quite like this before.  Knowing your safety brings you home-- not just to England, but to me?  

I've always loved you, but with the understanding that, some day, you would meet a woman that made you happy.  That someday, I would lose you to a love that drowned out your need for me in your life. Now that fear is gone, and in its place is something new.  Sweeter, perhaps, if no less terrifying.

But you're safe, and for the moment, that's the thought I keep coming back to.  You're alive.

You're alive.

And it must stay that way.

Regarding your letter, the idea of Mummy with an assault rifle is certainly intimidating!  I won't ask for her details, as curious as I am. I trust your judgement, and am grateful you have some support there.  

I've included the latest intelligence report on Stefan and his growing organization.  I can't stress this enough, Sherlock-- be careful. Our contacts in Russia have been going silent, and that leaves you in a vulnerable position.  He is playing with an endgame in mind, and has the resources and experience to be a legitimate threat.

To that end...

I've considered omitting this, but it feels uncomfortably dishonest.  Not to mention, you're fiendishly good at knowing things you shouldn't, and I wouldn't want you to find out through the grapevine.

I've arranged a meeting with several Russian leaders, who (for security reasons) shall have to remain as anonymous as your rebel friend.  I know you don't want me anywhere near Russia right now, dearest, but we both have our jobs to do. Trust me to take care of myself, as I've trusted you.

Be careful, and come back to me safely,

Always,

Mycroft

 

 **29** **th** **August**

My,

My beloved My.

I can’t get enough of just writing your name again and again and could probably fill an entire page just saying My.

I am sitting here in a serene ashram on the Nepal-India border and the meditation groups are chanting Om as the first word and the sound of the universe. I am smiling at them and I want to tell them that it’s not. It’s My. The first word and the centre of my universe.

No don’t worry I am not taking anything, although weed is plentiful and of a good quality here..…(I am just teasing you now.)

I know you have had regular updates about me from Emilie and Mikhail and they have in return given me updates on your movements and safety. Stefan got away but I am satisfied that enough of his network has been dismantled so as to reduce his power and reach very significantly.

Roza did a bit of a Rasputin on them. Sex and honey traps, poison in the vodka barrels, a few ‘accidental’ fires…and it was all over in a matter of hours.

I always knew that sex was powerful, but that was only theory. Now, having experienced its power myself, I wonder why people bother with anything else at all?

I wouldn’t ….if I had you with me, in a room, under a tree, anywhere at all…that is all I would want to do all day.

Anyway, I manage to escape rather smoothly before they realized what was going down, fortunately. I understand that your meetings in Moscow had a satisfactory outcome too.

I have ended up here as a safe place for a week or so before I can move to Taiwan. There are so many tourists here, especially from England, that I don’t even have to make any effort to become invisible. I have grown a full beard now and it makes me blend in even more.

But enough about me. After so many days of having to hide you in my Mind Palace and focussing on Stefan, I am very keen on reversing your places.

I want to sit in the bedroom at Thornfield and look at you again. I want to remember the first kiss.

Do you know how utterly terrified I was that you would push me away after that? I don’t think I understood what fear was even when I jumped off the roof of Bart’s, as much as I did at that moment.

I want to watch us make love. I want us to do it again. And again.

We will, won’t we My?

I have to ask you something because this is who I am and I won’t rest till I know the answer. And I have to trust you to tell me the truth.

Did you give in to me or indulge me because of what is happening?

Did you say yes to everything because you think I may not come back?

Will you still say yes if I do come back?

Yours, only yours,

Lock

P.S. Honestly My, you thought I would settle down with a woman?

Irene was interesting and I admired her mind and found her aura of danger very exciting….but she never aroused any such feelings in me. In fact I was convinced I was asexual since I never found anyone attractive, physically or emotionally or intellectually, of any gender. And I was fine with it.

But then I found you. Or should I say discovered you again? And fell in love with you. Or just realized it anew?

And I wanted you. I have never felt that way for anyone ever.

I think you did love someone when you were in college and I should be jealous because I would like to have been your only love.

But on the whole I would rather be your last than your first love.

I will be, won’t I?

Lock

 

 **30** **th** **August**

I forgot to tell you in yesterday’s letter that I managed to get to see the Taj Mahal on your birthday. The Nepal-India border is very relaxed and Agra is only a day’s ride by road.

I know you can probably tell me more details about the monument than the local guides! And you probably have your own thoughts on the idea of a memorial to love when she was his 4th wife and died in the 14th childbirth.

But I went there because I needed something to keep me from going crazy with thinking about you on that day. I sat there and wondered at immortal love and what it can do.

I am gaining a grudging respect for the goldfish, My. They are constantly awash in such emotions and they don’t even have Mind Palaces or the intellect to be able to able to deal with this logically.

And then I look at myself and wonder if I am in a position to judge them ever again.

I would do anything, absolutely anything to be able to hear your voice again. To touch your face, kiss your lips, hold you, be held by you.

Will we do that again My?

It wasn’t just because I was leaving, was it?

Yours,

Lock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The world seems a vast place for the Holmes boys.. but help make it a little smaller by popping in to chat to us!


	6. The moon represents my heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are post scripts and poetry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! 
> 
> Deviating slightly from traditional poetry, the title for this chapter comes from the song 'The Moon Represents My Heart', by Teresa Teng. A link to the song can be found in the footnotes.

**September 5, 2014**

My dearest Lock,

It seems so strange to begin a letter that way, the open sentiment after years of denial.  It's never come easily to either of us-- a fault I wholly take the blame for. But that's in the past, and I am resolved to try much harder in the future.

Any man that has read your letters until the corners are dog-eared and the edges frayed, cannot be entirely without a heart.  

Even if he had misplaced it for a time.  How lucky I am that you kept it safe for me, when I could not.

Would not?  

Either way, I know it's in safe hands now.

Both of your letters arrived within a day of each other, and I'm hoping to have this letter sent with Ariel when he leaves tonight.

You seem to have won over Emilie and Mikhail, they're both very fond you.  And have given me their word that they'll continue to keep an eye on Stefan, and his burgeoning operation, while you're seeking your enlightenment.  (Teasing, of course. I am aware of why you're there.)

He's fuming mad from what little they've learned, and I implore you-- be careful.  Stefan is powerful, and unlikely to be deterred for long. You've become the face of his failure, and that makes him all the more dangerous.  Don't let him get too entrenched in your Mind Palace, you still need to be able to exorcise him when this is done.

I'm grateful for all the miles between Russia and Nepal.  

Yes... well.. one could hope that not all of human evolution was entirely wrong about sex.  Although I've certainly never fantasized about making love outside, under a tree! You've certainly been getting back to nature, I see.  

Truthfully though, brother mine, it wasn't something I'd thought about, at all, in years.  Being so close to another human being seemed unlikely to ever happen again, and as time had gone on, I'd resigned myself to that.

I had my work.  Was all but married and my life consumed by my work.  It would have had to be enough.

Now you've stumbled back into my life if such an unexpected way, and I find myself missing it.  Memories of you have always run wildly through my Mind Palace, refusing to be contained by walls and doors; and now that I know how I feel about you?

Now that those feelings have fresh touch memories tied to them?  

Thoughts of you spill over the edge, and catch my attention at the strangest moments.  More than ever, everything seems to remind me of you.

I never thought I would be grateful to have been shot!  But that scar is an enduring reminder of the night we spent together.  And before you ask and worry-- my shoulder is healing fine. My physician is certain I'll have full use of it very soon.  

Rest easy, brother mine.  I love you, and as unexpected as all of this is?

I've loved you more than anyone, anything, on Earth. You are my other half-- that's been my constant truth since you were born.  And changing the expression of that love, doesn't change the love itself.

I am yours, in all things.  Just as you are mine.

And whether you're in my arms, or some far-flung corner of the world, remember that my heart stays with you.  I don't think there's ever been anyone else for me.

It's just taken us a very long time to see that.

I did rather think you would find a woman!  It's hardly a stretch to imagine that my brother fell into the majority; and by your own admission, you found Ms. Adler to be interesting and exciting.  Was it such a logical leap that you would find other women the same?

I suppose I should confirm your theory, since it's not the first time you've mentioned it.  After all, eventually you'll ask me directly, and demand answers instead of evasions! Yes, I did have feelings for someone while I was in university.  Technically, two-- but in quite different ways.

One I loved, and his only crime was obliviousness.  I was young, and never breathed a word to him, and when he moved I decided that remaining 'in the closet' was the best option for me.

Even now, the civil service isn't a welcoming place for homosexuals.  

I've never written those words, or said them aloud before, it looks strange on paper.  Either way, it seemed a fair trade at the time, since I doubted anyone would ever be interested in me.

Or I, in them.  Being gay doesn't mean the world is any less populated by goldfish.

The other was a few years later, when I was still working in translations.  My brief time with Karim is best summarized as 'memorable'. It taught me a great deal what I didn't want, and how I didn't want to be treated.  A good lesson to learn, and to remember.

Now I have you, in all your mercurial wonderfulness.  You were my first love, and you will be my last.

A few distractions in between can't change that.

For what it's worth, dearest, I would have much preferred to spend my birthday in Agra with you!  Mummy and Father decided to stage a raid on my house in London, and I spent most of the day with them.  

I think it was more of an excuse to see me safe with their own eyes, and I didn't have to heart to leave.  

When you come home safely, I swear I will take the whole week away from the office, and show you just how desperately I've missed you.  

We'll stay at Thornfield where we won't be distracted, and make up for all this time we've missed.  I owe you about a million kisses, and I intend to make good on my debts.

Focus on that, and your work, dearest mine-- and remember that I love you.  

Have always.

Will always.

Yours faithfully,

My

PS: I leave you with the words of the bard, and a sonnet I've heard a thousand times, and never truly understood until recently.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds     
Admit impediments. Love is not love     
Which alters when it alteration finds,     
Or bends with the remover to remove:     
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,  
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;     
It is the star to every wandering bark,     
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.     
Love ’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks     
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;  
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,     
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.     
      If this be error, and upon me prov’d,     
      I never writ, nor no man ever lov’d.

 

**September 5, 2014**

(Because I refuse to add an endless list of post scripts to my other letter.)  

Perhaps you aren't the only one in need of reassurance.  You said that you'd never found anyone appealing physically before, and that comment has rather stuck in my mind.

Are you certain this is what you want?  

My feelings won't change if you decide that that.. aspect, of our relationship should remain chaste.  And I can understand if it was merely your curiosity, or being caught in the moment.

Were you with me, because you thought it was something you had to do to make me happy?

Please-- I would rather know now.  

-My

 

 **Sept 15** **th**

My,

Your letter had to chase me since I left earlier than planned and I moved through Myanmar to mainland China. I have taken up odd jobs with a moving circus. It makes for an excellent cover since, as you know, gweilo are looked upon askance in this part of the country.

I am pleased to know that your shoulder is healing well.

I am however sorry to inform you that you cannot possibly be the smart one between the two of us if you can think, even for a moment, that I was with you because I thought it was something I had to do to make you happy.

Really My?

I am yours-- mind, body and soul. We made love as an expression of that.

If there was any other way of expressing that I would passionately engage in that way too. Acrobatics? Walking on hot coals? Swallowing a sword?

Tell me and I would happily do any of those!

Speaking of swords, I may want to use some strong sharp ones on a certain Karim because the thought of your heart being broken by anyone just makes my blood boil. But I am also sorry once again, for being so blind to everything you were going through at the time. So vulnerable and so alone. It makes me want to go back in time and hold you safe in my arms and wreak vengeance on all the idiots and goldfish who caused you even a single moment of unhappiness.

Although sadly that would also include me….and I cannot tell you how miserable that thought makes me sometimes. I am so sorry My.

I am glad that Mummy and Father spent time with you on your birthday, and you were not alone. Annoying as it may have been for you and much as I want you to be only with me, I am beginning to realize now how difficult it must have been for our parents to send us out into the world, knowing that our minds would make our social lives very difficult indeed.

You have been right, as always, in being so dutiful towards them.

And I must say, that more than any of your assurances I think the part about taking an entire week off makes me feel secure in your love for me.

Since a letter cannot convey an eyeroll, let me assure you that I am indulging in  one here !!

Really My?! Really??! I said I am willing to do anything to see you, touch you, kiss you…and you offer one week off??

If I didn’t love you more than my life itself, you would be in Very Serious Trouble for becoming Mycroft in the middle of my love letters to My……

By the time this reaches you, I would have moved to Taiwan. It is five nights to the full moon. Look at it and think of me.

Yours, always and forever,

Lock

****

 

**October 2, 2014**

Dearest mine,

It's reassuring to see that all of your globe hopping hasn't impacted your flair for the dramatic.  I'm not certain I could comprehend of a world in which you'd transformed into someone simpering and mild, and it's good to know that-- for all the changes between us-- some things are simply ingrained.

I don't believe it's necessary to walk on hot coals to prove your love, but I shall keep it in mind for a day when I'm feeling particularly underappreciated.

Kidding, of course.  Please keep your feet, and all other parts of you, safe and unscorched!

Yes, a week.  Seven days in which I will have nothing to do but make up for the time we've missed.  And before you curse me into some dire state, let me explain.

Aside from injury, severe illness, or your time in rehab, I haven't taken a leave from work in well over a decade.  And certainly nothing as long as this. Any more, and people will start to look askance-- of course, we could bring Mummy and Father, but goodness knows that would defeat the purpose!   

So, a week, and leave the goldfish none the wiser.

Secondly, a week, because it's precisely as long as I can leave the office without our time together being interrupted by a thousand phone calls, and utter chaos when we return to London.  

The sort of chaos that would keep me locked away in the office for a month trying to solve-- and a month when I wouldn't be able to see you.  This has, I admit, become an unacceptable option. I love you, and being away from you for so long has begun to feel fundamentally wrong.

Even if I'm away during the day, I want to be able to see you in the evenings.  Once you're home, I don't want to --

No, I don't think I _could_ , spend days apart from you.  

Lastly, a week, because any longer than that and our brains will demand more occupation.  Neither of us copes well with lengthy downtime, brother mine. And a week should give us the chance to plan something more to your liking, and length.  

Perhaps it's not sweepingly romantic, but restructuring my life to be with you?  It's something within my power to actually do. Of course I would do anything to see you, but I'm only a man.  And with you so far away, one who feels very limited.

I love you.

But for now, the moon must stay where it is, and I will find some sweeter words for when you're back in my arms again.

And until then, I've included my ring in this envelope.  Wear it, and let it remind you that I love you, and I'm waiting for you to come home.

Anthea is going to be here to collect this letter shortly (yes, I'm certain you're very proud of the idea that I'm writing love letters from my office in Pall Mall) and before she does, I need to address something you said in your last letter.

Lockie, you're my brother-- whatever else besides, you were that first.  And there were always going to be days that we fought, and when we antagonized the other beyond endurance.  Just as there will be days in the future that we do the same.

Neither of those things will change the way I feel about you.  Or how truly grateful I am that you share my affections. We will argue and disagree, and my only hope is that we find better ways to make our peace as well.

I'm not certain how to describe the feeling in my chest when you mentioned wanting to take revenge on the man who had hurt me.  It's strange, but not unpleasant. Still, Karim is very far from here, and very unlikely to ever see me again.

Besides, I was little more than an item to cross off his life list.  Honestly, it's the most ridiculous thing; people treating unappealingly pale, freckled redheads like they're a prize notch on their bedpost.  Very strange.

And lastly, before I leave (I'm traveling to Hong Kong for a meeting in a few days, and still need to pack) I thought you'd like to know that I went to see your Mrs. Hudson earlier this week.  Outwardly to check on your flat, and to pay the rents. As much as she misses you, Lockie, she seems to be much better than she was.

I miss you more than I have words to say. Be careful, my Lock.

With all the patience I can muster,

Your Mycroft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. _Gweilo_ or _gwailou_ is a common Cantonese slang term for Westerners. In its unmodified form, it refers to light skinned people of European descent and has a history of racially deprecatory use. Cantonese speakers frequently use gwailou to refer to Westerners in general use, in a non-derogatory context, although whether this type of usage is offensive is disputed by both Cantonese and Westerners alike.  
> (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gweilo)
> 
> 2\. Until the late 1970s, foreign music had not been allowed into mainland China for several decades. "The Moon Represents My Heart" became one of the first popular foreign songs (called "gangtai" songs) in the country under the new Open Door Policy.  
> (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Moon_Represents_My_Heart)  
> (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gk3VQoAKMUI)


	7. In love, nothing exists between heart and heart.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Holmeses are close-- but not close enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Just a quick note that we've gone through and updated our previous author's notes to include references for the chapter titles.
> 
> This chapter is taken from the poem 'Reality', by Rabia al-Adawiyya.

**2** **nd** **Oct**

My,

This is a short letter to tell you that I have reached Taiwan and have started working on infiltrating Lo Fu-chu’s triad. As you know, it is rumoured that he fled to avoid arrest after he was famously released on that 3,30,000 USD bond.

But it seems he is still here, underground and still carrying our counterfeiting, murders, and drug trafficking with links to Moriarty’s people, including the remaining members of General Shan’s Black Lotus Tong.

I hope you are taking care of your shoulder.

I miss you more than I can express.

Yours,

Lock

 

 **10** **th** **Oct**

My,

I think my earlier note must have crossed your letter.

You accuse me of being dramatic and then send me your ring??!

I am still unable to believe it and despite spending an hour examining it, imagining it on your finger just a scant few days ago, it still seems like…I don’t even know how to describe it ! Magic? Fantasy? A dream come true which I didn’t even know I had?

As always you are miles ahead of me and for once I do not resent it one bit.

Do you think we can do this My? Exchange rings one day? Take vows?

I know I don’t need anything to remind me that I belong to you but yes, it is good to have a token to let me know that you belong to me and only me!

I am sure you are shaking your head in exasperation at my selfish desires but you really have no idea, do you? Of what you do to me?

You are and have always been so perfect at everything. The perfect son to our parents, the perfect older brother to me, the perfect agent and then the perfect officer and diplomat. With only one experience of a few hours, I shall be generous enough to say you are the perfect lover too!

You are a genius, a man of sophistication and charm, erudite and with a highly refined aesthetic.

Why would you settle for an ex-junkie who flouts all rules, pushes all limits, has no stability in his life and to top it all, has troubled you ( and will probably continue to trouble you!) as a brother ?

I wonder to myself….why? How long can this last?

I imagine that one day you will wake up and realize what a terrible mistake this was.

Then I wonder what I will do.

Will I accept your decision and stay away from you because I love you too much to make you unhappy by forcing myself into your life….and then what purpose will my life have beyond that?

Such morbid thoughts assail me on these lonely nights and then…… then you go and send me your ring and I am undone.

This is more than I would have even considered asking for.

Yes, My, yes, we will do your organized one week holiday, with even an hourly timetable if that is what you want!! And we will hide and be discreet and keep the goldfish distracted (and one of these days I will certainly find Karim and cut him into ribbons because this reason is even worse than if he had cared for you and hurt you!)

I wear your ring on my left hand and I long to be in your arms My.

Take care.

Lock

 

 **12** **th** **Oct**

My,

I could not resist. The ring made me miss you even more and I managed to get into Hong Kong for a day to see you yesterday.

I did see you and I like to think that you may have realized my presence because you kept looking at the garden on the left side of the British Consulate when you stepped out for a smoke.

I saw you standing there with your black gloves and the long black coat you were wearing over your suit and when you held the cigarette to your lips, it took all my will power to stay in the garden and not walk across, hold you and replace that infernal cigarette with my lips.

You are still holding your left shoulder a bit stiffly and I noticed that you have lost weight. 5 pounds. Please take better care of yourself.

I may not be able to write for the next few weeks since I am now trying to make my way up from the Incense Master to the Dragon Master at 489.

I will be careful because I want to come back to you, so don’t worry!

Yours always,

Lock

 

**October 30, 2014**

My dearest Lock,

Your last letters took an unconscionable amount of time to reach me, and I've been looking into the delay.  I can't explain to you the profound relief that comes with every new letter, and reminder that you're whole and well.

If in rather more danger than I would want.  

I've said it a dozen times, and I fear I'll have to say it a dozen more before you're back where you belong--

Be cautious.  Stay safe. This assignment is dangerous enough without inviting trouble.

When you're finished in Taiwan, we may have to find a way for you back to the UK.  It seems as though several of Moriarty's former associates have been meeting privately in Dublin.  I'll monitor the situation for now, but be prepared for a detour to Ireland, should things continue as I’m projecting.

And now that that repetition is out of the way, (I trust you, Lock, I do.  But the helplessness of my current position is tormenting):

Yes, I sent you my ring.  

It was an impulse, sitting here behind my desk, and aching to send you something more tangible than paper.  Keep it safe, and when this is over, we'll exchange them properly.

Was that a tentative proposal, dearest?  Or just testing the waters to see if I was willing?

Even if it can only be in private, I'll find a way to make that happen.  Writing my vows should at least give my fretful mind some occupation. And give you all the more reason to come home--

I'll tell you them in person, and not a moment before.  So if you want to assuage your curiousity, you'll have to stay safe.  

That is, if you'll have me?  

Officially, rather.  I hope you know by now that I'm yours. And only yours.  

Even when you're being an utter terror.  And when you're pushing my buttons for the sheer delight of getting under my skin.  When you're loud, and impossible; and stubbornly refusing to speak for days.

I loved you when we were children, and this was all so much simpler.

When you were high, and when the withdrawal made you violently ill and furious with the world.  

Sherlock, I've never been a man to rush headlong into sentiment, and I know who you are.  I've seen you at your exquisite best, and I like to think I was some help at your worst.

I'm not walking into this blindly, or expecting you to change.  We both have decades of habits to break, and I have no illusions about how hard this may be.  

We are both hopelessly flawed, my dearest.  

Both of us.

Now, enough of your dark and morbid thoughts; I am yours.  You are mine. And I have no interest in relinquishing you.

This being apart is more difficult that I ever imagined.  How did we manage it when we were younger, and only saw the other on school holidays?

Not that I'm endorsing your sneaking about!  I knew someone was watching me, I could feel your eyes on the back of my neck.  My dear, sweet torment, I wish you'd found a way to come closer! To know I was a hundred yards away, and missed you?

Perhaps it's for the best.  I'm not entirely certain I could have let you go.

Don't worry about my shoulder, or my weight-- take care of yourself, Lock.  I promise, I'll be fine.

And waiting for your next letter.

Yours,

My

 

 **7** **th** **Nov**

My,

I only asked you to look at the moon and remember me…….not pluck the moon from the sky and drop it in my lap!

Now I look in the mirror and see you, I look at the sky and feel you, the breeze blows past and I remember you, hear any song and I miss you. Nothing is left that is my own self any more.

You ask me if I will have you? Is there any answer possible to that but YES a million times YES!!!

My, you might as well have asked the rain if it wants to fall or a flower if it wants to bloom. It can do nothing else!!

I know I am sounding like a wandering poet and I blame that on my week with the Sufi singers here in Iran-- but you are the one to blame really! You have done some sorcery and transformed me into something I scarce recognize as myself any more.

I am sure you know that the Sufi way is direct communion and absorption in the Supreme with sheer love and devotion. The lover is a human being and the beloved is God. The Sufis do not ask for worldly comforts. They neither yearn for heaven nor live in fear of hell. They seek only the enchanting sight of the Beloved.

That would be me, as I sit here in this courtyard, surrounded by the beautiful quiet night and look at the ring and think of you. I seek only the enchanting sight of you.

I want to wake up to you every day for the rest of my life. I want to go to bed in your arms every night. You offer me such hope that it might be possible that I can scarce breathe for fear that this is all a wild dream and I will wake up and things will not be the same.

Yes, I am yours and you are mine, for ever and ever more and I will never ever let you forget that!

Yes my dearest beloved My---write those vows and maybe write some for me too since you probably know me better than myself.  We will exchange them when I see you next. Which I hope will be soon. It has been one hundred and thirty three days too many since we were together.

I did manage to at least see you in Hong Kong which makes me slightly less, but in some ways perhaps even more desperate to actually take you in my arms My and kiss you.

TingWei had conveyed to you already that we managed to break into Lo Fu-chu’s triad and by the time this letter reaches you, he would have been arrested by the police from China. I wish there had been a way to make sure he was not caught alive since the corruption in the system may mean his escape again.

I left soon after he was identified and took a Taiwanese shipping line to Bandar Abbas in Iran since I needed to avoid mainland China as well as Russia. Once I get to Istanbul I will wait for you to send me word about coming to Dublin and I can take the sea route again to Italy and fly out from there.

If I do have to come to Dublin, I am not sure I can resist the temptation to meet you when I am so close to London. Mummy will be shocked to hear that for once I am actually yearning to be home for Christmas dinner since it would mean being able to see you, touch you, be with you.

Take care of yourself till we meet again.

Yours forever,

Lock

P.S Here is another poem for you.

Is this going to become our tradition? Exchanging poems?

I imagine you looking at this in exasperation since I know how much you abhor the goldfish and their rituals and the need for repetitive and mundane celebrations of pointless things like birth anniversaries and mythical creatures! And I know I shared that logical disdain.

But now? I want to celebrate your birth, my birth, even that of our parents, because without all these fortuitous coincidences, how would we have met and then what would have been the purpose of it all?

I want to celebrate your birth on the anniversary of the day you were born as well as on every other day of the year !! So forgive me My, but I am inching towards the goldfish camp on this one !

I want us to have an anniversary and ….and I want you to bring me flowers and dance with me and I want to sit on your lap on Valentine’s day and feed you cake…there, did I succeed in bringing a smile to your face ??

Good ! I want you to keep smiling and read this Sufi poem and think of me.

Always!

Lock

In love, nothing exists between heart and heart.  
Speech is born out of longing,  
True description from the real taste.  
The one who tastes, knows;  
the one who explains, lies.  
How can you describe the true form of Something  
In whose presence you are blotted out?  
And in whose being you still exist?  
And who lives as a sign for your journey?

-Rabia al-Adawiyya

 

**November 20, 2014**

My dear poet,

It seems like you’ve become quite a student of words since we were last together.  I was not born under a rhyming planet, so you will have to forgive my faltering attempts at affection in prose.

It’s a strange thing, I only just realized that I hadn’t written poetry since I left university.  I suppose, since I gave up linguistics for the civil service. Not that they were any good, mind you!  But it would be nice to meet your lovely words with some worthy ones of my own.

Most of me feels like I should be writing to you of happy things.  With reminders of how much I love you, and how hopeful I am to see you again.  Christmas seems like a lifetime away now, instead of merely a month, and I know I’ll be counting the days until then.  

Notice, I’ve not even tried to dissuade you from the idea.  Not that I think I could! You’re the most stubborn man alive when you’ve set your mind on something.  But truthfully, Lock, I wouldn’t try. Don’t have the heart to.

London is so quiet tonight without you.  

And I suspect that if you knew how much I was censoring of my life, you’d be furious. You’d feel as if I was giving you only the bright fragments of my days, instead of the truth.  

And you’d be right.

That isn’t what I want.  So, in this letter, I shall endeavor for honesty.

For years, I’ve had a photo of you on my dresser; for so long, in fact, that I hardly notice it anymore.  But since July, I find myself lingering over it in the morning. Imprinting the familiar shape of your face into my mind, and trying not to admit the dark, morbid fears I know we share.

I think this separation has been much more difficult than either of us anticipated.  

As I’d said, it’s quiet in London tonight, and there is little to distract me from my own thoughts.  I’m not certain I’ll send this letter, but we’ll see how brave I feel in the morning. The mercy of it is, if I choose not to?  You’ll never know. And I’m not certain what I think about that blunt censoring of my own life. Especially knowing how much you’d dislike it.

An understatement, yes, I know.

What I’ve been trying to decide, through this whole letter, is if I should tell you that I ran into your Dr. Watson this morning.  It was unexpected for us both, and I believe, confusing for the woman he was with. He seems happier than the last time I saw him, and I want to believe that you’ll be happy for him.

But I can’t be certain.  And I never want to be the bearer of things that cause you pain.

Just as I can’t entirely silence the persistent voice in my mind that wonders-- horribly-- if you’d be jealous of this new woman in his life.  

I don’t doubt your love, only whether I’m worthy of it.  

It’s much easier to put those words on paper when I’ve decided not to send this letter.

With all my heart,

My

 

**November 22, 2014**

My Lock,

Of course, the one time I decide not to send you a finished letter, it invariably gets tucked into the file of intelligence reports I was also sending you.

The universe may not be lazy, but she has a vicious sense of humour.  Please, brother mine, ignore the whiskey soaked ramblings of a fool.

I love you, and I will see you in a month.

Yours,

Mycroft

PS: Your greeting card romantic sentiments did make me laugh (what an appalling thing to admit!  You see the effect you have on me?) And I’ll reward them with a poem for you, since there are many worse traditions to have.

When I parted from your side, my ears still alight with the music of your laughter,  
Sleep would not meet me with merciful oblivion as I lay awake in my bed,  
longing for you to fill the quiet, cold space at my side.  
My skin fashioned hot and alive, longing for your touch.

The clock mocked me with fruitless minutes and swift-stolen seconds,  
each one whispering of your absence.  
As I traced the path of the departed sun from my bed, and wished for dawn.  
The phantom caress of your breath, and lingering whisper of your voice in my mind,  
drawing my body to unwanted wakefulness.

For your sweetness haunts me, and stirs my fingers from my sheets.  
Though sleep has forsaken me, I have paper.  
And the midnight bravery to pen the words I must shy from in the daylight.

You have my heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come swing down into the comments to chat to us about these hopeless (hopeful?) romantics!
> 
> 1a. As we know from the Blind Banker, there are Chinese secret societies that operate globally and include triads with members in Hong Kong, Taiwan, Southeast Asia and overseas countries (particularly the US) and competed with the Tong and other Chinese secret societies.
> 
> 1b. Triads use numeric codes to distinguish ranks and positions within the gang; the numbers are inspired by Chinese numerology and based on the I Ching.[17] The Mountain (or Dragon Master or Dragon Head) is 489, 438 is the Deputy Mountain Master, 432 indicates Grass Slipper rank;[18] the Mountain Master's proxy, Incense Master (who oversees inductions into the triad), and Vanguard (who assists the Incense Master).  
> (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Triad_(organized_crime))


	8. Whatever our souls are made out of, his and mine are the same.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Christmas plans are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick thank you to everyone who has taken the time to comment and chat with us! We're nearly to the end of Sherlock's first year away, and so much has changed for them!
> 
> The chapter title comes from 'Wuthering Heights' by Emily Brontë.

**1** **st** **Dec**

My,

Due to my wanderings within Turkey, both your letters were received by me on the same day.

I have read the first one many times, and have been reflecting on what I should say to you since I did not want to respond in my usual spontaneous way. (hence also the delay in writing this letter)

I am trying to learn your language, since My seems to be rather inseparably cohabiting with Mycroft for too many hours of the day.

Despite your best efforts and ‘shining example’ of teaching me subtlety and diplomacy, I am not yet a convert, as you know very well indeed. So I shall tell you now, with no attempt at finesse and no reading between the lines and hinting. (though there may still be a poem at the end!)

Did the woman John was with seem like more than ''just a date”? If so, I am happy for him.

Jealous yes, but of him--because he can be with the one he wants. I hope that if this works out for him he will be less inclined to punch me when he finds out that I have been alive this entire time.

Now, with my newly discovered capacity for ‘feelings’ I realize I do owe him a very big apology. He did care for me. (Still does perhaps?) Much more than a flatmate or even a friend. We did have a bond that I cannot describe well even now, because the goldfish have such a desire to label everything into neat boxes that don’t scare anyone.

So there is no name for ‘more than a friend’ without everyone assuming ‘lover.’  

Lestrade has also been more than just the D.I who calls me to help with his cases. Molly has been more than a work colleague at the lab. And Mrs. Hudson has always been more than a landlady (more than even the housekeeper she keeps saying she is not!)

And you ? You have always been more than just my big brother.

You have been my _everything_. Even when I didn’t know it. Didn’t recognize it. Didn’t appreciate it.

I know you think I am capable of being moody and fickle and with the attention span of a fruit fly; an ex-junkie who is always looking for a new high, who gets bored with routine and would rather run away than submit to the tedium of a predictable life.

All of that is true and perhaps will always remain to a certain extent. I can never hide the real me from you of all people, who knows me better than I know myself.

But this I know to be true My---we are meant to be together. Forever.

I know that there was a time when I would have joined you in scoffing at such ‘sentiment’ and people who think they are ‘soulmates’. I would have cheerfully deconstructed their ‘feelings’ with scientific arguments, logic and precision.

But now? Even thinking of you and the longing to be with you feels like a spiritual experience. I am immersed in you and my love for you My. Surely you have to know this!

I am wearing your ring. Everyday. And hoping that one day you can wear mine.

If the world was a better place, perhaps we could have had a double wedding with John and his new woman.

Look at me now-- a wedding planner no less! And for someone like John-- who had made 221B into the revolving door you accused me of having in my miserable shaman tent...

Any universe that has conspired to put us together is the only one I want to be in, parallel multiple options be damned!

Now that all that is out of the way, can I ask if you really meant what you said about Christmas? You have sent the documents for Dublin but asked me to wait till I heard from you before I left Istanbul.

Dare I hope that we can meet in less than a month?  Can this crazy universe be ever so amenable??

Yours, always and for eternity, (never doubt it !)

Lock

P.S

As I have come to expect ---perfection from you in everything!! My, you are a poet to rival the Romantics!! I am driven to utter despair at the thought that you kept this heart of yours hidden for so long. And at my own blindness in not recognizing it.

I have seen that photo of mine on your bureau for so many years now and scoffed at the gesture as maudlin sentiment, perhaps also seeing it as a token to assuage our parents’ distress at our fraught relationship.

(I wonder if they will be relieved now to know how well we ‘get along’. Once again--grateful that Mummy does not have any Kalashnikovs….but you never know with her. She may actually be rather relieved….Are we brave enough to check?!!)

So on that terrifying note, here is my poem.

Alas, despite my new- found love for poetry, I am unable to compose any. I _do_ have a violin piece I have been working on in my Mind Palace that I hope to play for you someday soon.

Till then we shall have to rely on your old favourite, Percy Bysshe Shelley.

One word is too often profaned  
For me to profane it,  
One feeling too falsely disdained  
For thee to disdain it;  
One hope is too like despair  
For prudence to smother,  
And pity from thee more dear  
Than that from another.

I can give not what men call love,  
But wilt thou accept not  
The worship the heart lifts above  
And the Heavens reject not,—  
The desire of the moth for the star,  
Of the night for the morrow,  
The devotion to something afar  
From the sphere of our sorrow?

 

**December 15, 2014**

My dearest buzzy Bee,

(For you are, and always have been. Yes, even when you compare yourself unflatteringly to a fruit fly.)  

You’re right, of course.  The two sides of myself have rarely played nicely with one another-- but every part of me loves you, and so perhaps in time they can find a happier accord.  After all, they have something vitally important in common.

I’m curious, brother mine, what you’re doing when you write to me.  I tend to sit at my desk, either at home, or at my office at Whitehall, and usually with your last letter sitting beside me.  For some reason, I never write to you while I’m at the Diogenes; perhaps because your letters invariably make me smile, and such a thing would seem out of place there.

I visit the Diogenes when I’m looking for quiet contemplation.  But you, my dearest, have a place of pride in my home, my heart.  And your letters, in the table at my bedside.

You and Dr. Watson have always been a strange pair, and I confess, I’m not certain how he’ll react to your return.  I would hope he would be relieved, but such complicated emotions are unpredictable things, and one’s instinctive reaction isn’t always the most honest.

Of course, should he actually hit you?  His emotional state will be the least of his worries, as I will personally see to it that he’s removed to a bleak and desolate corner of Siberia.  

Anger, I can understand.  Goodness knows we’ve been angry at each other more than often enough.  But there is no place for physical violence, and I won’t tolerate someone harming that which is mine.  

And before you pick up your pen and scrawl me a furious message in defense of your blogger?  Let me remind you of the less than peaceful comments you’ve made about Karim, and his past offences.

But for now, I’ll simply hope that John greets you with joy and relief at your return.  Just like everyone else.

How sentimental we’ve become!  So in lieu of poetry, I’ll send you a line from ‘Much Ado About Nothing’ that seems entirely appropriate for the men we had been.

“I will not be sworn but love may transform me to an oyster,  
but I’ll take my oath on it, till he have made an oyster of me,  
he shall never make me such a fool.”

But now it has, and a happy oyster I shall be!

And happier still with the knowledge that I’ll be able to see you soon.  I’ve been waiting to send this letter until I could be certain, but yes-- meet me in Dun Laoghaire on the 26th.  Eleven days has never seemed so long!

It’s quiet and away from prying eyes.  If I can only see you for a day or two, I refuse to let that time be interrupted with work.  And if I’m in Dublin, it certainly will be.

Only a few more days, Lock.  It seems like a lifetime since July.

Impatiently yours,

My

PS:  (And you see this habit of yours is wearing off on me!  Ending letters and remembering something I’d forgotten to say!)  

I won’t be mentioning this to Mummy any time soon!  She’s worried enough, and I don’t need to add to that.  Besides, my dearest, she would-- with the best intentions-- leap to the worst conclusions.

I know you love me, but she would assume that I’d coerced you.  Or worse. Let her be grateful that we’ve finally solved our differences-- but it’s probably kinder not to give her any specifics on how that’s happened!

 

 **18** **th** **Dec**

Dearest My,

I cannot contain my joy at the thought that we will be meeting so soon!

Yes, I will make my way to Dun Laoghaire and will take the train to Sofia tonight.

That way I can make my way by road to Berlin and then take a flight to Dublin.

Yes, of course you sit at some clean desk and write letters to me—that is why Mycroft is always peering over your shoulder and interfering with the sentiments, as is his habit! As for me, I write wherever I can—sleeping on my stomach on the floor in a tent, cross legged under a tree, at the table of a roadside truck stop or _daaba._

Today I am writing in the courtyard of my safe house with Hakeem Yilmaz. His daughter Azra is writing a love letter to her fiancée and I am going to copy the poem from her since it is exactly what I want to say to you too!

And I shall put it in as a postscript, because that is now apparently another tradition! Maybe when we are old and grey and nodding by the fireside, you can write a little compilation called the ‘Traditions of the Holmes Brothers: How they fell in love and how declared it.’

Likely to be best –seller I think. More popular than John’s blog. Speaking of whom, yes, even I do not understand the bond we share but yes, I do hope that he will not do anything to cause you to send him to Siberia! But you do know that he would kill… has killed to save my life and I hope you will forgive him some minor transgressions?

But enough about all this now. I need to start planning my route. Send my new papers and flight documents to Karl in Berlin.

Yours always,

Lock

P.S

I remember that you used to call me your Bee when we were little!! Rather when I was little. I think you were born an old man—always willing to follow the rules and be proper and obedient! How did you do such a bad job of raising me?! You raised me didn’t you? I cannot recall spending any time with Mummy and Father until much after you had left for college. I guess by then the damage had been done!! (I am just teasing you now!). And yes, Mummy will always find a way to blame you somehow—old habits die hard, but it would be so wonderful if she could be happy for us? Wouldn’t it?

P.P.S

The poem for you.

(Well if we have to make a tradition out of Post Scripts, then may as well be extravagant with them !)

I love you  
like dipping bread into salt and eating  
Like waking up at night with high fever  
and drinking water, with the tap in my mouth  
Like unwrapping the heavy box from the postman  
with no clue what it is  
fluttering, happy, doubtful  
I love you  
like flying over the sea in a plane for the first time  
Like something moves inside me  
when it gets dark softly in Istanbul  
I love you  
Like thanking God that we live.

    -Nazim Hikmet

 

 **20** **th** **Dec**

My,

Sofia has too many eyes. Perhaps because of the troubles in Ukraine.

I cannot risk being seen by Stefan’s people.

I am going to try coming from Egypt.

Yilmaz suggests going with some of his associates who will be leaving for Cairo.

Lock

 

**December 24, 2014**

Sherlock,

We haven’t been able to locate you anywhere from Sofia to Cairo, and there are reports of Stefan’s recovering organization increasing their activity in that area.  Who are these associates you’re traveling with?

I’ll be forwarding this letter to our usual meeting points, contact me immediately when you receive it.

Mr. Yilmaz and his family have been taken into our protective custody, following an attack that we believe was orchestrated by Stefan.  They’re alive, and have agreed to be resettled in England for the time being. But there’s been no word of you, or your location.

Please be safe, brother mine.  You simply have to be.

-Mycroft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a cliffhanger! Until Saturday!


	9. If every inch of my skin was touching yours, I still wouldn’t be close enough to you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love is an impulsive thing, and Sherlock is surprised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello our lovelies! Here we are again, and hopefully this makes up for the cliffhanger!
> 
> The title comes from Justin Wetch's 'Bending the Universe' book of poetry.

_24th Dec_

_ My, _

_ It was not possible to leave from Cairo either. _

_ There have been shootouts involving ISIS and here is a very severe clampdown. _

_ Someone like me who is not a local will not be able to escape intense scrutiny. _

_ I am at Minya now on the houseboat with your agent Heba and her family. I am not sure where we will be stopping but I intend to lie low for a week or so. _

_ My, I am so deeply disappointed at not being able to see you that it hurts to breathe, it hurts to hear laughter.  When I close my eyes I see you. When I open my eyes I miss you. _

_ Five times a day the muezzin calls and my heart wants to wail to the sky and bring you to my arms. _

_ The view on either bank is beautiful but filled with the absence of you. If you were with me I would live here happily for a hundred years. But in your absence, every breath is torture. _

_ When will this be over My? Will I have to always be on the run? _

_ And even when I get back…this love of ours will have to remain a fugitive won’t it? We can’t hold hands, kiss, and be with each other in the presence of anyone. Your job, my enemies, they will always surround us won’t they? _

_ I despair My. I don’t have the infinite patience and fortitude that you have always had. _

_ I have tried so hard to be better. To not worry you. To not make you feel bad with my yearning and longing. But I can’t hold it in any more. _

_ What if it never gets solved? What if I can never come back? _

_ I can’t even get myself to say I want you to find someone and be happy. I don’t!! _

_ I do want you to be happy, but only with me! _

_ Don’t forget that My! If I don’t come back and you find yourself a goldfish, I will haunt both of you. _

_ I want to believe in rebirth just so that we can be born proper lovers in the next life and can be with each other openly. _

_ I was going to surprise you with it but since we are not meeting, I don’t want to keep it a secret any more. I had a ring made for you. You know of course that the Nile River carries gold all throughout and Egypt has some of the most ancient gold jewellery in the world. _

_ The Ankh symbol is used by them to represent eternal life. _

_ So I had a gold ring made for you with this symbol. _

_ I am wearing it over your ring now so that at least our rings can be together. _

_ Despairingly yours _

_ Lock _

 

Even in January, the slowly setting Egyptian sun was as unrelenting as the fine, yellow dust that seemed to saturate everything.  The heat beat down oppressively, warring against the misty spray that kicked up from the motor as the small boat propelled diagonally across the wide, blue stretch of the Nile.

Already his warm British tweed and wool had been replaced with linen and silk, in deference to the heat; and pale, freckled skin felt tight and crisped by the blazing sun, now slanted and red at the horizon.  Even his jacket had eventually been draped over the handle of his case, leaving only his waistcoat behind. 

Yet, for all that, Mycroft was happy.

For the dozenth time since he’d boarded the plane in London, Mycroft pulled his brother’s last letter from his pocket, and skimmed the now familiar lines.  It had taken more than a week for their agents to track down the specific location that Sherlock had taken refuge in.

And another 48 hours for Mycroft to procure the proper papers to see him safely over the borders and checkpoints that even his diplomatic access couldn’t ignore.  

Seven hours on a plane.  

Three more in Cairo.

And another on the stuffy, sweltering bus to the docks where he could commission a lift.  

Three more navigating up the river, sun beaten in the heat of the day.

But when he saw the tidy, bright shape of the houseboat bobbing along on the current, it was all made worth it.  62 hours after the letter had arrived in his hands, Mycroft Holmes laid eyes on the man he’d been missing for months.

Sherlock was sitting on the deck, playing with Heba's daughters and teaching them sign language when he noticed that they were being approached by another boat. He paused and watched, suddenly alert.

It was not unusual for boats to approach each other but something about the way they were approaching so directly made him wonder.

_ Was this a casual encounter? Were the children in any danger? _

He watched as Heba’s husband listened on the satellite radio, nodding and slowing down their boat to match the speed of the arriving vessel.

Someone was coming out on to their deck and in the rapidly deepening gloom of the evening Sherlock could not be certain who it was.

But as  the person came closer his gait seemed familiar and Sherlock’s heart was in his mouth as he stood up, unable to believe his eyes.

_ Could it be…?!  No of course not, that was crazy….. _ _   
_ _ He was in the middle of absolutely nowhere, floating down the longest river in the world…….But still…if anyone could he would….Good heavens yes! It was Mycroft! _

He was not sure how he managed to stay standing at the sight of Mycroft approaching him in the gathering dusk like an angel from the heavens. He looked tired, he had lost weight again  _ but he was here! How had he managed it?! _

The two children crowded near Sherlock instinctively, clutching at his robe and staring up at the newcomer.

“Mycroft?! How…  Oh thank god My.” He exclaimed as he put his arms out to embrace the one person he was craving to see more than anything else on this planet.

As Mycroft approached closer, the children let go of Sherlock and ran to their mother and watched.  With a grunt of the engine his boat slid to a stop beside Heba’s, and gripping the railing tightly for balance, Mycroft stepped across the narrow divide of blue water.

Sherlock stepped forward and almost crushed Mycroft in his arms, barely able to stop shaking and weeping at this unexpected joy.

“You came, My, you came. I love you My. I love you. I love you!” He kept murmuring over and over again.

Mycroft’s heart felt like it was wedged in his throat, and while Sherlock breathed his name like a mantra, the older brother could only grip him to his heart, rendered speechless by piercing gratitude.  

His Sherlock was alive.  

Miraculously and impossibly, he’d managed to find him.  A single man on the face of the globe was less than a speck; and yet here he was.  His speck. The one that Mycroft’s world revolved around.

“Of course I came, you daft thing!  Where else would I be?” Mycroft’s laugh was a breathless, overwrought thing that trembled over the broken syllables; and there were salty tears sliding down his cheeks to vanish in Sherlock’s black curls.  “I told you I’d see you for Christmas, didn’t I? I know I’m a little late, dearest mine.. But don’t tell me you gave up hope?”

He had to laugh, or else he was going to sob.  The emotion burned in his chest, tangled and razor-wire sharp-- relief and love turned alchemical and painful in his blood.  

Mycroft wanted to breathe him in.  To hold him closer. To convince his arms and untrusting skin that Sherlock was real.  

Blinking back the hot burn at the corners of his eyes, Mycroft cupped Sherlock’s cheek in his palm, and tenderly thumbed the line of his cheekbone with disbelief.   _ Here.  Real. Alive _ .  His soul made whole, and held in his arms after what seemed like a lifetime.

“My Lockie..”  He whispered softly, “I thought I’d lost you.”

Sherlock had held it all in for so long. The initial disappointment at being unable to leave via Sofia had led to cautious optimism that Cairo might work. When that also proved impossible, a black clawing disappointment had been eating away at him. He had been unable to hold back and had poured out his misery to his beloved but had been feeling guilty for having burdened him with his troubles. He knew that Mycroft wanted to meet him equally badly but that no matter how deeply they loved each other, real life would always have its own harsh rules to follow.

So, yesterday when one year had passed into the next, he had sat quietly on the deck and looked at both the rings on his hand and wondered when he would be able to see Mycroft again. He had gone into his Mind Palace and watched them at Thornfield and seen them sleeping together as one and had felt a physical pain at the emptiness of his arms today.

It was not right that they should be apart! They belonged with each other and once this was done….if it would ever get done….he would find a way….they would find a way….Mycroft would  _ surely _ find a way...

He was actually grateful when the children had come and called him out to play. Any distraction was welcome to stop him from getting utterly lost inside his Mind Palace…..

And now to find that Mycroft was here! Standing in front of him, holding him close, it was too much for his aching heart and he wept freely.

He didn’t care that the children were watching, he didn’t care that it made him appear weak, he didn’t care that he was the World’s Only Consulting Detective who had been systematically taking down the evil network built by the World’s Only Consulting Criminal.

He only cared that My had somehow heard his plea and felt his desperation and had obviously moved mountains to be here in front of him today.

What need was there for any more vows between them?! This, his very presence here was his vow.

“Please, please take me with you My. “ Sherlock was pleading in his ear, still unwilling to let go even by a fraction. “Even if you have to leave soon. I…..I just want you all to myself for a while. Just a little while….please.”

“Shh, Lockie… it’s alright now…”  It didn’t matter that they had a curious audience; the children’s dark eyes watching them from around the edges of their mother’s skirt, and the men on the idling speed boat shifting their weight in discomfort.  

Even the Holmeses had never been much for public displays, but after half a year apart, Mycroft had no eyes for anything but the man in front of him.

The sight of Sherlock’s helpless tears rolling over his fingers-- the tactile  _ warm, wet, salt _ registering in his brain-- gave Mycroft all the incentive he needed to pull his overwrought brother back into his chest.  

After all, he’d had nearly three days to work through the tangled deluge of emotions that stirred at the thought of seeing him again.  But for Sherlock, it was a jarring surprise.

Wonderful, yes… but deeply overwhelming.

With one hand, Mycroft tenderly smoothed over Sherlock’s curls, feeling the soft edges of them spring and coil around his fingers.  And the other arm he anchored around his waist, holding him close and safe against the heavy thud of his heartbeat. 

Letting him hide his face against the warm curve of his neck, where the cedar and grapefruit scent of Mycroft’s cologne still lingered on the sweat-damp skin.  

A space where he could collect himself.

“My thanks for your services...”  Mycroft said over his shoulder to the boatmen, after one of them had politely tossed his heavy case up onto the deck of the houseboat.  His tongue moved easily around the Arabic syllables, and their reply was a pair of muttered agreements that blurred into the sharp rev of the engine.

They’d been paid handsomely for their help, and were eager to return to Cairo to make good on the unexpected windfall.  

With half an ear, Mycroft listened to Heba as she ushered her children inside, giving the brothers a moment of privacy.

Well, as much privacy as you could find on a boat.

“My silly, silly Lock…”  He murmured reassuringly against the faint depression of Sherlock’s temple, feeling the feathery edges of his curls against his lips, “Don’t plead for my time.  I’m here for  _ you _ .. And I have no intention of letting you out of my sight.”

Sherlock’s breathing slowed down under the calming influence of Mycroft’s murmurs and the gentle stroking.

He gripped Mycroft even tighter, still unable to believe that this was real ! That he had pulled off this miracle!!

He heard Heba come back and talk to Mycroft, offering to send her husband and children off on another boat for a day while she stayed back as pilot and bodyguard.

_ What should he do?   _ As much as he desperately wanted to have Sherlock to himself-- to not have the constant, wearying chance of interruption hanging over their heads-- his safety would always come first.  And Mycroft would much rather be interrupted by the quiet, motherly Heba than by anyone out to cause his brother harm.

They had both made enemies that would be only too happy to take the chance to feed the Holmes brothers to the Nile perch and wickedly toothed tigerfish.

He felt Mycroft go still as he considered her offer. It was more than he could hope for under the circumstances but he could actually feel the thoughts of Mycroft collide with My as he took all of 3 seconds to respond in the negative.

Sherlock’s safety had to take priority and Heba’s husband was a trained pilot. He did ask her if there was someone else who could take care of the children though, just to improve the ratio of those needing to be looked after and those who do the looking after. He was sure that Sherlock was still more than capable of handling himself in case of an emergency but seeing him with the children made him wonder who Sherlock would prioritize for safety in case things did go wrong.

He needed those children to be sent away for now.  

As careful as he had been, Mycroft couldn’t be entirely sure that nobody had followed him.  Keeping the children apart was safer for everyone. Them included.

Heba agreed and left to make arrangements.

Sherlock raised his head, loathe to put any distance between them but he also wanted to look at My. To look into his eyes, to see that beloved face. And yes, he laughed, to wipe his own eyes and nose, as Mycroft took out a fine cotton handkerchief with a soft, unsteady half smile and offered it to him.

Sherlock wiped his eyes and cleaned his nose, and finally looked at Mycroft properly and said “What a way to welcome the new year isn’t it? Come, let us go down to my cabin.” And he held out his hand. 

“Lead the way, brother mine.  I’ll follow you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll see you again on Wednesday, but until then? Swing down into the comments to chat! ❤️


	10. In one spirit meet and mingle, Why not I with thine?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A promise, an exchange, and a few stolen hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick thanks to everyone that's taken the time to come chat with us in the comments! Real life has been pretty hectic, and your messages are so inspiring!
> 
> The chapter title is from 'Love's Philosophy', by Percy Bysshe Shelley.

The boat rocked slowly with the Nile current, swaying lazily underfoot and making Mycroft deeply grateful for the handrails that lined the stairs and corridors.  He’d never been the seasick type, but it had been a long time since he’d walked on a surface that had such a mind of its own.

It wasn’t a large vessel, but the houseboat was comfortable enough, with the basic sort of creature comforts that made it ideal for Sherlock’s purposes.  Waiting until the head had died down.

Below decks it was cooler, out of the sweltering head, and the air held a touch of dampness that made their skin prickle for an instant with a flash of goosebumps.  In silence, Mycroft held his brother lead him by their joined hands; through the hallway, around the corner, passed the tiny galley and what must be the other bedrooms.  

It was hard to believe that this was Sherlock’s hand in his. Roughened with the last year of travel and trial, but still familiar.  Still the same long, elegant fingers and the faintly squared palm.

Still his brother at the bones.

Mycroft’s heart was thudding painfully against the back of his ribs, trying to escape, when they closed the cabin door behind them with a solid thump.  He had the brief glimpse of a narrow bed and a worn case against one wall.

But after months of seperation, Mycroft only waited until the door had latched before cupping Sherlock’s cheek and kissing him soundly.  Slow and shallow, tracing the cupid’s bow of his lips, and imprinting the taste of salt and the shape of his mouth into his memories.

_ Lock _ , he thought as his eyes fell closed,  _ My Lock.. I was so afraid I would never be this close to you again _ .

Sherlock moaned at the first touch of his lips, his entire being flooded with relief at being able to finally touch My and be touched by him. He didn’t even try to kiss him back as he just leaned back against the wall of his cabin and allowed his senses to drink in every caress, every flicker of his tongue, every hot shallow breath against his face. He felt drunk with lust and desire and all he could do was hold Mycroft at the waist and make sure he stayed close…closer….closer.

As they both broke part for breathing he steadied himself and looked at Mycroft.

“You came.” He said softly, looking at him as though he still could not believe that this was real. “You came for me.” He bent forward slowly, touching his cheek with his hands, softly, still feeling a bit fragile for having battled against the storm in his heart ever since he realized that they were not going to be able to meet. “What have I ever done to deserve you?” he asked as he held Mycroft’s face in his hands and planted the softest of kisses on his beloved My’s eyes, cheeks, lips.  

Then he let go and did what he had imagined a million times since the time Mycroft had sent him his ring.

He went down on one knee and took Mycroft’s left hand in his.

“Sherlock- what are you--”  Mycroft began, his cheeks colouring in a way that had nothing to do with the amount of sun he’d gotten.

“I didn’t write any vows My. What more can I promise you when I am entirely yours in mind body and soul? Forever? ” He pulled off the new ring from his left hand and held it up as he recited softly and clearly.

“Nothing in the world is single  
All things by a law divine  
In one spirit meet and mingle  
Why not I with thine?”

Mycroft felt his heart stutter in his chest when he looked down, the last motes of dusty red sunlight stealing through the cabin window and glinting brightly on the elaborate ring.  

The ring Sherlock had had made  _ for him _ .  Because, even though they’d been apart, his brother-- his sweet, impossible Lock-- had been thinking about him.  “You’re proposing with Shelley.” He managed to murmur, pushing the disbelieving words passed the knot in his throat.

Hearing the promise now, in this most unexpected place, it didn’t sound as strange as Mycroft had feared it would.  

The had the same blood running in their veins, the same marrow in their bones.  Mycroft had loved him, and been devoted to him, before Sherlock had even drawn his first breath-- what were words and rings but a confirmation of what had always been there?

Swallowing hard, Mycroft sank down to the floor to meet his brother.  His slender fingers caught on the edge of the ring as he folded his hands around Sherlock’s, trapping the shining metal between their palms.  “The first time I saw you, I knew you were like me. I was seven, and I knew that you were going to change my entire life.”

With a shaking laugh, because the only other alternative was to cry, Mycroft kissed their joined fingers, holding them close to his lips, “I am yours, as you are mine.  And no matter what might lie ahead of us, the is no one else for me. There never has been. Only you.”

Sherlock looked at him and his heart was so full of joy that he could barely contain it. He almost expected to hear angels singing and harps playing, because really. where else was heaven but right here? Right now?

He took the ring and put it on Mycroft’s finger and gave a naughty smile. “You are sure you aren’t saying yes only because I threatened to haunt you?”

And then he sat on the floor and laughed at the absurdity of it all.

The World’s Only Consulting Detective and The Most Dangerous Man in Britain, on their knees, in a grubby cabin on an unidentifiable boat cruising down the Nile. He realized he was probably overwrought due to the stress and disappointment of the past ten days and the sudden appearance of what he craved for but had absolutely never expected.

He looked at the bed and laughed some more. “May I offer you this luxurious four poster bed for your honeymoon my lord?”

It was madness, Sherlock’s laughter shattering the tension between them and suddenly Mycroft felt like he could breathe again. 

They’d both been desperate to close the circuit between them.  To solidify their inked and paper words with bands of metal. Something stronger than the sweet and distant syllables they’d held onto for months.  

Mycroft’s expression creased with disbelief as Sherlock collapsed into giggles, and he wasn’t far behind.  Both of them sprawled on the floor and helpless with freeing laughter. 

No more mourning their luck, and the distance, and the uncertainty of their future.  Because, for just a few stolen hours, they were together. “Oh Lord…” Mycroft huffed, his fingers still threaded tightly through Sherlock’s, close and anchored together in their absurdity.  

The bed was clearly too narrow, and probably too short, and Mycroft wanted nothing more than to prove that they could make it work.  “Yes, of course. It’s clear you’ve pulled out all the stops to make this as grand as possible.” He teased, and twisted up to his feet to offer Sherlock a hand.

Still laughing quietly, they helped each other over to the small cot, fastened to the wall of the boat for stability.  “I was afraid your desire to marry me wouldn't carry through once we were in the same room.” Mycroft admitted, sinking down on the side of the bed and toeing off his shoes.  Even floating along the Nile, Mycroft Holmes wasn't the sort of man to slide into bed with his shoes on. "I've never been so grateful to be wrong."

Billions of years of the existence of the Universe, millions of years of evolution, thousands of years of civilization and decades of their own lives…..all converging to this event horizon.

Sherlock lay in Mycroft’s arms, as much out of practical needs (because the cot really was very small !) as out of a need to stay as close to him as was possible.

“Well, we are still only half married” he said, his eyes still laughing. Then he solemnly took off the ring he had been sent by Mycroft and handed it back to him. “I want you to put it on my finger.” He said.

“Till death do us part.” Sherlock said and leaned over and kissed his My. 

There were no witnesses, no paperwork, and no stuffy man with credentials and a starched suit.  It was a world away from a formal wedding-- and Mycroft was grateful for it. 

It was just the two of them, the fading twilight and the sloshing rhythm of the waves against the side of the ship.  Sherlock loved him, and that was all the divinity Mycroft needed.

“With this ring, I thee wed.”  He murmured against Sherlock’s lips as his fingers found his brother’s blindly.  “I give you my protection, my faithfulness, and my joy.” Each soft word was punctuated with a kiss, his lips skimming feather light across Sherlock’s forehead, his cheeks, the bridge of his nose and the jut of his chin.

“Lock.. You make me want to be a better man.  And if it takes the rest of my life, I’ll find a way to tell you how profoundly happy you’ve already made me.”  

There was a curve to his mouth as Mycroft kissed his lips.  Smiling, because for the first time in months, he felt whole.

And finally they had run out of words. Or had they just gone beyond words?

Sherlock suddenly felt shy as he reached for Mycroft’s shirt and started slipping the buttons out, one by one, gently, in complete contrast to the frantic urgency that had accompanied their first night together at Thornfield.

Had it been only one hundred and ninety eight days ago? It seemed like a lifetime away…many lifetimes away….and he could scarce recognize the man who had gone there, in secret, to meet with the newly discovered love of his life, utterly unsure of how that declaration would be received.

Torn between the urgency to grab every moment he could have with Mycroft and shaken with the terror of being rejected and never having that again.

All those letters, all those words, the tears, the smiles, the separation….it was all worth it. It would always be worth it. Love would always be worth every price that had to be paid for it.

He helped Mycroft shrug off his shirt and laid his head on his chest, resting his cheek against his cool skin, feeling that precious, precious heartbeat as they rocked together with the swaying of the boat, his hands roaming everywhere, with a slowly gathering hunger rising in his belly.

_ Mine ! _ He thought to himself.  _ Forever ! _

There were no clocks here, ticking away with the maddening reminder that their time was a limited thing.  There was only the cadence of their breathing, and the slow darkening of the room; shadows lengthening and edged with red.. Maroon… and finally fading entirely as they blurred into one another and announced that night had fallen.

Their first night together had been rushed and desperate, a frantic fumble to mark and touch; to press their fingers in and hold on as tightly as their strength allowed.  They’d been undone, shattering through years of distance and disdain with great, sweeping motions, and leaving those old, unwanted walls in rubble.

They hadn’t had the chance to rebuild, and for months, Mycroft had felt like there was a vulnerable, gaping hole in his defences.  

But now, eyes closed and Sherlock’s soft curls tickling his bare chest, he was peaceful.  Stifling a yawn, Mycroft tightened his arm around his brother’s waist and curled his perpetually cold hand under the loose hem of his shirt.  Sherlock was warm under the fabric, and sighing contently, Mycroft traced slow, nonsense patterns over the slope of his hip with idle fingertips.

“This won’t be forever, Lock.  Someday it will seem normal to fall asleep together, and these will all be memories of the distant past.”

"Surely you aren't planning on falling asleep Mycie?" Sherlock said, smiling against his chest, listening to the rumblings as Mycroft huffed a laugh. " That would be a rather dismal wedding night don't you think?"

Sherlock nudged himself up on his elbow, somehow managing to wriggle out of his own loose tunic. He caught a glimpse of the ring on My's left hand as he tried to help him.

He held Mycroft's left hand in his own left hand, fingers interlocked and looked at the two rings. Mycroft's ring on his own finger, slim, understated, solid. Just like My. Working in the shadows, subtle, but powerful. His ring on Mycroft's hand, dramatic, elaborate. Just like him. He smiled at the realization of how the rings they had chosen for each other were such a reflection of their own selves!

He murmured Mycroft's words back to him as he kissed their hands held together. " With this ring I thee wed."

Then he let go of his hand and said, "With this body I thee worship."

And if their first night together was communion, then this was a metamorphosis.  The remnants of their separate lives turned to ash, as they mapped out each other’s bodies and pressed their promises into warm skin.

They’re both jealous and desperate in love, clutching every shared moment in sweat damp fingers.  It’s not enough, and they both know it never will be-- maybe it could never be, even if they had all the time in the world -- but there’s shared breaths and panting, laughing kisses that eventually melt into passionate moans.  

There was life in the moments they had, and neither of them intend to waste them.

Sherlock plants his bruises where the world will never see them; in tender places that Mycroft will feel for days.  He smiles when his brother shudders under his mouth, his fingers; his big brother murmuring his name like it’s the only word in the world that he cares to remember.

Mycroft leaves his where Sherlock can’t ignore them.  Where his collars and cuffs can’t quite hide. And when he sends his brother back out into the world, it will know that someone is waiting for him.

They’ve always been possessive over one another.

Perhaps it shouldn’t have come as such a surprise that they’d ended up there.  

In the soft afterglow, Sherlock pillowed his head on his brother’s chest and listened to his heart-- much as Mycroft had done months before.  And Mycroft watched him, combing his fingers through his sweet brother’s wild curls. 

Whatever came next, they would remember this.

  
  


_ Lock, _

_ I was going to wake you before I left, and I know you’ll be furious that I didn’t. _

_ But you look so peaceful, and if you were awake, I’d need one more kiss, and another, and another-- and I’m not certain I’d be brave enough to leave.   _

_ Tomorrow, I know you’re going to worry that this wasn’t enough for me.  That I’d come all this way, only to be with you for a few hours.  _

_ Read this, dearest, and believe me-- it was.   _

_ Even now, I’m watching you sleep, and trying to summon the strength to leave.   _

_ The image of you bathed in the Egyptian dawn is one that will follow me back to dreary London, and through the days we’re apart. _

_ Whatever may lie ahead of us, remember- _

_ I will always come for you. _

__      -My _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And once more, back to work they go! ❤️


	11. From you I have been absent in the spring.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which distance can't destroy their love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Just quick, since this is going to be a crazy busy week, we're going to update this fic on Tuesday instead of Wednesday. Then again on Saturday as usual!
> 
> And a huge thanks to MyRubicon for inspiring the title of the chapter, which is from Shakespeare's 98th Sonnet.

**15** **th** **Jan**

My,

I am sorry that this letter has taken so long to get written.

Yes, you are right, I was rather angry when I woke up, as well as overwrought at the thought that you were no longer there with me and I hadn’t even realized that.

What kind of an undercover guerrilla warfare am I working on if I can sleep through something like that?  

(It’s a good thing then that I sleep alone on most nights isn’t it?!)

As you can see I am trying extremely hard to avoid being angry with you in words, here in this letter, because in my heart of hearts I _know_ that this was a better goodbye.

Only one of us had to actually suffer it at the time.

And yes, if I had set eyes on you again I would probably never have been able to let go of you either. Then we would have had to stay with assumed identities in Egypt and never return to England.

I still cannot believe that you came! You came this entire distance just for a night…….but that night gave worth to my entire lifetime My, and I cannot find it in me to be truly angry that you left.

You came as my lover and left as my partner and when I woke up my mind was so calm and filled with joy that I actually wondered if I had died of happiness?

Even the children noticed that their Bassel Khal was in such a better mood that morning than he had all week in the boat! So did Heba I am sure and I do hope she believes it to be only due to brotherly love.

(I forgot to tell you but she gave me that name while on the boat since she said it is a lion who is fierce and the first in any fight! I guess she is a good reader of character. So I asked her that day before leaving what she would name you. And after some persuasion she said Hamza. Why am I not surprised?)

I had to wear my long sleeved tunic that day and keep it all buttoned up to hide certain marks from the prying eyes of the world.

Needless to say that I have spent many happy minutes every day admiring them in the mirror in the privacy of my room. Two of them have not yet faded away completely. In fact, there is a beautiful bruise on my hip that has turned sea green now. I will be sad when it disappears completely and I have this urge to tattoo its borders in so that it will always be a part of me.

Who would have imagined this My?

That someone like me, the most private of people, and all I want to do now is declare my love for you to everyone! I want to stop people on the street, I want to tell the trees, I want to write it on the sky.

No, don’t worry, I am maintaining my composure in public. This is all for your eyes only.

I have my ring to look at, and it is heavier and more beautiful than when I rolled it out of the envelope and wore it myself. Now I know that you have put it on for me and that you are wearing mine, it feels like I am being anchored by this ring.

(I know it may be difficult for you to wear my ring openly, so don’t worry if you have to take it off and keep it somewhere for safekeeping. It is merely a symbol after all.)

Whatever else happens, and I don’t want to sound morbid or worry you, (and I will still haunt you if you ever find anyone else!) but it seems to me as though I feel complete now.  Even if I were to die, I would die in peace.

As though this was the purpose of my life and it has been completed.

To find you, to love you and to be loved back.

As though I was seeking something my whole life—all those drugs, all that adrenaline rush from the cases, all the chases, the adventure---and everything has faded away to another lifetime and all I need now is you.

And then I remember, I don’t have to need you anymore.

I have you!

You are mine and will always be mine. To have and to hold and I shall wait patiently (as patiently as you have ever known me to be!) till the next time that we can meet. I will not ask you for it and I will not risk either of our lives or this mission for it but I know we will meet again.

Until then, you are my heart beat and I listen to you as I fall asleep every night, as I know you are listening to mine.

Yours and only yours,

Lock.

P.S

I have reached Colombia and am working with Isabella on finding ways to meet the local paramilitary forces and strategize with them to take down the organized crime network that Moriarty had controlled.

Alejandro is handling my paperwork here so send him the next set of documents. I cannot avoid Russia forever I think but my next stop will probably need to be in Africa again.

P.P.S

(How could I forget our tradition?)

“One day you will ask me which is more important?  
My life or yours?  
I will say mine and you will walk away  
Not knowing that you are my life.”  
     -Khalil Gibran

 

**January 23, 2015**

Brother mine,

It seems like delayed post is going to be the theme of this month, probably due to the backlog of people traveling home after Christmas.  Apparently Alejandro had quite the ordeal. Still, I’d rather have your letters late, than not at all. However, he’s arrived safely, and should be returning to Colombia by the end of the week-- of course, you’ll know that, as he’ll be bringing this reply with him.

Along the rest of the intelligence reports we’ve been gathering.  As always, be careful, dearest. With every new cell of the organization you dismantle, the rest of the rats grow a little more powerful, and much more wary.  We have some evidence that the current arm of the network is working out of Medellín, and not Bogotá, as we had originally suspected.

Unfortunately, it seems that most of the operatives there are very fond of their code names, which makes it significantly more difficult to connect the major players to their daily lives.  Of course, I’ll include the information we have with this letter, and hopefully you can find some use of it.

Now that that’s out of the way, I must tell you that returning to London has seemed grey and cold.  And I find myself thinking of you in every spare moment (and more than a few that are far from spare).  

You’ve turned me sentimental, my dearest, and I can’t find it in my heart to mind all that much.  

My memory doesn’t do justice to how beautiful you are.  And my words fall far short of expressing how much I miss you.  

But for the time being, one will have to satisfy me, and the other, you.  I’ll redouble my efforts to see this finished soon, and you returned to my arms where you belong.  Until then, remember that I love you.

Heba may think you’re a lion, but I know better, my own little bee!  

Still, for now, a lion may serve you better.  

You see, now I’m becoming more maudlin in my letters.  I took your advice to heart, and have relocated my writing space to my bed (I hope you approve of this, since you were so scathing of me writing at my desk!)  It’s been raining for three days, and currently sounds like God is throwing quite the tantrum.

Do you remember when you were small, and I taught you to count the seconds between the thunder and lightning?  It took me an embarrassingly long time to realize that you weren’t afraid anymore; but that you wanted the excuse to come sleep with me.  I suppose I didn’t want to see it.

After all, if you were afraid, I had an excuse to let you stay.  Even when you ran kicking marathons in your sleep, and stole all the blankets (some things have apparently never changed)!

I wear your ring with pride, dearest.  A few people have noticed, but most of them seem to suspect that it’s a symbol of some secret, Freemasonesque secret society, and I’m deeply amused by the new theories and rumours that have been cropping up around Pall Mall.  

Apparently I’m single handedly running the country, instead of the minor official we both know me to be.  

It may sound morbid, but I understand what you mean.  I feel the same, as though I’ve finally solved a puzzle that’s been deviling me for years.  But the more I think about it? The more I realize that it isn’t the completion of our lives.

Just one phase of them.  And another that’s just beginning.  

We’re broadening our relationship, dearest-- adding terms like lover and husband, to the existing brother, tormentor, and chief instigator.

I wouldn’t change any of them.  

For a long time, I felt as though future was written already.  I couldn’t conceive of anything powerful enough to change it. I would work, and look after you (as much as you’d allow), and work and work… And eventually, I would die.  It was the path I had come to expect. Logically.

Now that’s all changed, and it’s both exhilarating, and terrifying.  But I have you, and I find that my joy eclipses them both.

Take care of yourself, and remember that this separation is temporary.  We’ll be together again, soon.

Yours Always,

My

PS:  (Because despite the hateful nature of post scripts, this does seem to have become a tradition!)  I suppose I should be sending you Keats or Shelley, but I’m determined not to end this letter on sentiment, so instead?  Something I remember you reading to me as a child.

I like you because if I am mad at you  
Then you are mad at me too  
It's awful when the other person isn't  
They are so nice and hoo-hoo you could  
just about punch them in the nose.  
… I would go on choosing you  
And you would  
go on choosing me  
Over and over again.  
     -Sandol Stoddard Warburg

 

 **30** **th** **Jan**

My,

My brother, my philosopher, my north star, my lover, my husband…..my everything…..how delicious the word husband sounds when I say it to you.

In my Mind Palace it seems like a lifetime ago that I was sitting alone, fidgeting with the two rings on my finger, wondering if we will ever be together at all, let alone as more than lovers. But not even a month has passed out here in real life! I can only wish that the rest of the time passes equally fast and I am back to where I belong. That we are both where we belong. In each other’s arms.

I like to imagine that in many lifetimes and across many universes that is how we have been. We have always been partners and lovers and more. We have been two lions roaming the savannah, we have been two eagles swooping across a blue sky, we have been two sharks swimming in the oceans. In the vast and infinite spaces and times, we have always been two parts of a whole and destined to meet each other. That even here and now, being born to the same parents was just the universe’s way of making sure that we found each other!

And yes, I do approve of you writing the letters in bed, as I am right now. (though of course I would rather be IN that bed with you and these letters then be redundant ! )

Isabella is proving to be a very able agent and we are working together with the paramilitary forces to infiltrate the criminal network. Alejandro has had some trouble and I am not sure how often I can send you a letter this coming month.

But remember that you are with me, in my thoughts every day and in my dreams every night. Take care and stay safe.

If my love could trace a path to your heart, the sky would be full of rainbows all the time.

Yours, and only yours,

Lock

 

**February 8, 2015**

My only,

I have only a few minutes to reply, but Adriana is anxious to catch the evening flight back to Colombia.  I would rather send you a short letter than none at all.

I’ve never believed in soulmates, it seemed impossible that any one person could be fashioned for me.  Or I, for them. It was entirely illogical and, I was sure, only a reflection of the goldfish’s habit of sentimentalizing everything.

One couldn’t simply be in love, it had to be a cosmic divination.

The Powers That Be having a direct influence on their lives.  Divine intervention, and all the universe coming right for just a moment.

Now I have doubts.

If I have a soul, then I am certain it remembers yours.  It recognized you the moment you were laid in my arms for the first time, and has never forgotten.

If time, death, rebirth and distance couldn’t keep us apart?  Than what chance does one criminal organization?

For the next few months, I may be busier than I have been, and less able to reply as promptly as I would like.  It’s mostly routine diplomacy, and nothing you need to worry about; but it will mean spending a significant amount of time back and forth between London and Abu Dhabi.

But for now, Adriana is impatiently waiting, and I must cut this short.

With all my love,

Mycroft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wondering, is our current twice-weekly update schedule working for everyone? 
> 
> 1\. Khal is Arabic for an uncle who is the mother’s brother.  
> 2\. Arabic people have several different names with 'lion'!  
> (https://stepfeed.com/arabs-love-lions-so-much-they-name-their-sons-after-them-in-15-different-ways-8872)  
> 3\. Some information about Colombia and their fight against organized crime  
> (https://dialogo-americas.com/en/articles/colombia-concludes-2018-success-fight-against-organized-crime)  
> 4\. The Masons are an example of a secret society  
> (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Secret_society)  
> 5\. 5. Sandol Stoddard Warburg is a children’s author, and the whole poem “I Like You” can be found at (https://www.onefabday.com/ceremony-reading-i-like-you-by-sandol-stoddard-warburg/)


	12. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which lonely miles make a perfect garden for trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! As promised, this chapter is a day early, because real life is a busy busy thing that doesn't always have easy internet access!
> 
> The chapter title is from Jane Austen's 'Persuasion'.  
> "You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone forever."

**20** **th** **Feb**

Dear Mr. Mycroft Holmes,

Would you care to explain to me why you had your arm on the back of a certain person from the UAE diplomatic services?

The man who is described by the Dubai Times and Al-Jazeera as Karim Ahmadi, the most elite of diplomats, a celebrated poet. They tell their readers that he and his counterpart from the British diplomatic services Mycroft Holmes, were seen enjoying a dinner to celebrate the success of the latest negotiations.

There is also a cloying and slobbering article in the alumni newsletter of your infernal college which talks about the great heights achieved by the likes of you. Both your names are in fact joined everywhere. Karim Ahmadi & Mycroft Holmes.

He also seems to have posted on his social media a photo of the two of you, alone, in some unspeakably poncy venue having some revolting food.

What a jolly evening it seems to have been!

He seems to have aged rather well and seemed un-naturally happy in your company. Couldn’t contain his delight apparently since he seemed determined to inflict all 32 of his rather horse like teeth upon the world at large.

Did he perhaps dedicate a poem in your name? A sonnet? An ode?

I am contemplating writing him an elegy. What do you think?

Did he appreciate the elegant crafting of your ring or were you not wearing it on the occasion? It must feel rather heavy to wear when you have such light-hearted company to enjoy.

Should I be adding him to our Christmas card list?

Warm regards,

Sherlock Holmes

 

**February 28, 2015**

Brother mine,

I’m certain it will come as no surprise that I have no desire, what so ever, to dignify your accusations with an answer.  

Yes, I’ve seen the news, and the unfortunately angled photographs.  And as I was present at the events in question, I’m also entirely aware of the missing people they’ve cropped from the edges of the photos. A picture may tell a story, Sherlock, but that doesn’t mean it’s an entirely truthful one.

Are you questioning my fidelity? Or simply my intelligence?  Common sense?

Yes, I’ve seen the way he looks at me.  Just as I’m aware of what such a dalliance would cost me.  It was a mistake I’d made once as a young man, and will not be repeating.

I’m certain you’ve already deduced that we have a prior relationship.  I know what kind of a man Karim is, brother, and I’m not likely to ever forget.  However, for the moment, he is also the representative of the Emirati diplomatic core, and I cannot allow my personal feelings to supersede the good of the country.

Of course, I can’t discount the possibility that this is all a product of your guilty conscience.  Or did you mistakenly think I hadn’t heard how close you and Isabella have become?  Naturally she’s just the sort of woman you would find interesting.

I may tolerate Karim’s flirtations, but I never encourage them.  

The same, apparently, cannot be said about you.

I haven’t taken off your ring since I left Cairo.  Make of that, what you will.

With enduring faithfulness,

Mycroft

 

**March 1, 2015**

My dearest Lock,

I’m not certain if this will reach you quickly enough to make a difference, but I am hoping-- and at this moment, that hope is the shallow tether I hold on to.

I regret the things I wrote in my last letter; and the curse of a good memory is that I can too clearly remember the foolish things I said.  I was hurt, yes, but that’s no excuse.

I’m the elder brother, and I should have known better than to return your letter in anger.

Having you accuse me of being unfaithful, and with Karim, of all people? It struck a nerve I hadn’t realized was exposed. If I’d known, perhaps I would have better been able to guard against it.  

I was a young man when I met Karim.  New to the civil service, and floundering under the expectations everyone had for me.  I know you understand what I mean, when I say that brilliance is not always a blessing.  I was terrified, isolated. And had recently made the decision that a lifetime of hiding myself in the closet was a fair trade for the career of my choice.

We can’t all be Uncle Rudy, I’m afraid.  And I have never been that brave.

I remember missing you desperately, and wishing I could be home.  As much as I have always loved London, and known I would live there as an adult?  It was a cold comfort. Through university, all of my colleagues had been several years older-- and that was a trend that carried into my career.  We had little in common, and I’ve never made friends easily.

I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m telling you all of this.  I won’t deny that part of it is guilt, and the desire to make some amends for my appalling misjudgement.   I won’t deny that I was hurt by your accusations, and by the stories of your new relationship with Isabella.

None of that gives me the right to lash out, or accuse you in turn.  

But more than just my guilt (though there is plenty of it to spare) is my belief that, had you known the truth?  You wouldn’t have felt so betrayed. And I want to shed some light on it, however humiliating that may be.

When I met Karim, he made no secret that he found me appealing.  I’ve never looked in the mirror and been happy with what I’ve seen.  It was flattering to be wanted. I couldn’t help but enjoy it.

He was a little older than thirty, and vastly more experienced.  Unfortunately, that experience came with very little patience for my fumbling, or my fear.

He wasn’t my first.  That mistake is a very different story, and many years earlier.

Lock, being with you has shown me what desire should feel like.  And I can only hope that I’ve been good for you.

Needless to say, it didn’t take long for me to realize that I was nothing more than an amusing diversion.  A naive young man that wanted very much to be loved; and who was easy prey for someone like Karim.

“Eager to please, but sadly lacking” was his assessment, when I confronted him about it.  Along with a few unflattering comments about being curious if my red hair was natural, and if my freckles continued all the way down.

That might be the most mortifying paragraph I have ever written, and thank God for scotch.

Had I known that he was going to be on the Emirati delegation, I would have found a way to absent myself from the project.  It never occurred to me, not for a moment, that he would be with them.

Perhaps I should have told you when I found out.

But I’ve been focused on trying to get through this with my dignity intact.  And I never want to worry you, not over something as trivial as this.

I have to be able to do my job, Lockie.. And with you so far away, and the stories Alejandro has so kindly supplied about you and Isabella?  I’ve been struggling.

This is a weakness I can’t afford.  

I must be stronger.  I must be better. For both of us.

And I’m so very sorry that my failings hurt you.

I only hope you can forgive me.  

Yours, and only yours,

Mycroft

 

**15th March**

My one and only dearest beloved My,

By a miraculous ‘coincidence’ both your letters were received by me on the same day since I had been away and the papers were waiting for my return.

I give fervent thanks to the never- lazy universe for this.

I read them one after another and shed many hot tears in shame and anger. Shame at myself for making those ridiculous accusations. And anger at Karim.

Perhaps even a sword is too good for him. I wonder what happens to people who accidentally fall into a river full of piranhas. Or who find themselves in an enclosure full of hungry wild dogs?

Might make for an interesting experiment someday.

I am just simply going to ask you this: Can you please forgive me?

Can you please forgive your endlessly stupid, eternally thoughtless, idiotically trigger happy Lockie who is obviously the most useless lover to ever walk this earth?

I have no excuse and no justification, except to say that I have never been in love before?! I have never belonged to anyone like this before…I have never had so much to lose before.

You are so perfect and simply too good for me, that I live in the terror of you waking up one day and realizing that this was a colossal mistake! That who you wanted to marry and grow old with was someone refined and erudite and cultured. Not this rude and obnoxious menace who never gives you a moment of peace. Who has, in fact, never given you a moment of peace since he was born.

When that happens and you fall out of love with me….that would be the end of me.

But I also wouldn’t want you to stay with me because of duty or obligation….so I find myself staring at the edge of an abyss when such thoughts cross my mind, and when I see you with someone who is a refined diplomat who also writes poetry and blah blah then all those insecurities raise their head and then I write idiotic and hurtful letters…..

As for Isabella---you know me! You have known me, all my life and perhaps even better than I know myself. I love my drama and if I have to play act being in a relationship with someone in public, I will do it as flamboyantly as possible! Behind closed doors, she is the agent and I am the warrior. Nothing more. Nothing less.

I must say that I take some pride in knowing that I did a good enough job to fool you too (although that prize idiot Alejandro better not come within a five mile radius of my presence if he doesn’t want to have his sneaky gossiping tongue pulled out.)

My, you know I may be many ( many!) bad and useless things but you also know that I will always be true.

I will always be loyal. And I will always be yours!

So hold this letter against your lips now and feel the million kisses I have sent for you.

Listen in to the ham radio channel of Colombia HK3C on 22nd March and wait for a violin piece being played which was composed by ‘an upcoming young artist with great promise.’ It is called “Intoxicated by the madness of love.”  He composed it for his infinitely beloved and most patient husband who he does not deserve and whose forgiveness he hopes for…..

Yours in abject repentance,

Lock

P.S.

“Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself, Love possesses not nor would it be possessed: For love is sufficient unto love.”

    “The Prophet” — Khalil Gibran

 

**March 25, 2015**

My only,

It seems the Gods are smiling on us, as your letter arrived just in time for me to turn on the radio.  I had hoped to reply directly after listening to it, but I admit, I found it impossible to write through the tears.

We’ve both behaved abysmally, and I’m certain we will in the future-- there’s nothing to forgive, and I can only hope we learn from it, and put the hurt of it behind us.  You are the only person in the world for me, Lock, and when we’re together again, I promise I’ll remind you every day.

At least twice.  Five times on Sunday.

Ten for every holiday.  Twenty-five if we have to visit Mummy and Father.

And a thousand whenever I’m particularly stricken by how much I love you.

I don’t want there to be a single doubt in your mind that I love you.  That I will always love you. And there is nothing in the world, or beyond it, that can change that.

Clearly I will be a busy man when you’re back in my arms, where you belong.  And I can imagine no better occupation.

Sherlock, there will always be well-spoken, refined people around me.  My work tends to attract people like that.

But you are the one I want.

The one I’ve chosen to make my life with.  

And all of their pretty words can’t hold a candle to how incandescently happy you make me.  You have my heart, dearest, and I’ve come to see that you always have. It’s not mine to give away.

Your name is written in a bold hand on the fabric on my soul.  

How else would it always know to find you?

On a happier note (because I am trying not to send you a letter speckled with tear tracks, because I’m not a teenage girl to weep over her pages!) Karim has returned to the UAE, and with any luck?  It will be a very long time before he darkens our lives again.

Perhaps, if I’m very lucky, it will never happen. At the very least, I can hope.

Before I forget, I ran into your pathologist a few days ago.  

And yes, I’m changing the subject, are you amused at my lack of finesse?

She sends both her affection, and the hope that you come home soon.  Apparently she’s been in contact with Anthea since you left. Truly, brother mine, they make for a terrifying pair!  Thankfully, they are both firmly on the side of the angels.

Anyone who thinks that spying is the sole domain of men is begging for a terrible shock.

One more thing before I end this letter… As loathe as I am to, because I feel closer to you when I’m writing…

They say that scent is the closest sense tied to memory, and so I’ve tucked one of my pocket squares, scented with my cologne, into this letter.  

A token for my brave knight, and to remind you to come home safely to me.  

With renewed faith,

My

PS:

No, I haven’t forgotten our tradition.

In my heart is a space  
that is so sacred  
and none can enter in  
but you.

And I shall wait for you  
though it takes forever,  
though my heart bleeds  
and my all consumed.

I wait because I love you  
And love waits  
for the only one  
that it loves.

  -Jocelyn Soriano

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only three more chapters! See you on Saturday!


	13. Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand, And Eternity in an hour.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Governor and the pirate Captain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, back again with the lucky (unlocky?) chapter thirteen! 
> 
> The chapter title is from the wonderful William Blake poem 'Auguries of Innocence'. 
> 
> "To see a World in a Grain of Sand  
> And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,  
> Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand   
> And Eternity in an hour."

**3rd April 2015**

My,

I re-read all your letters as often as I can, despite remembering every word of course, simply because seeing your writing makes it real---- that you were touching this paper, sitting somewhere thinking of me, as your pen flowed across it.

Now you sent me your pocket square and I am truly intoxicated at the flooding of the memories. You have been using this same cologne for so many years and it has definitely been a part of my ‘deconstructed’ sense of you in my memories. Every time I hold it and breathe the fragrance in deeply I see you ---standing at 221B Baker Street, leaning on your umbrella, sitting next to me at home during one of our fraught Christmas dinners, sitting across me at the Diogenes as we planned for this situation, everywhere, all over my Mind Palace.

Thank you for this thoughtful gesture that is so precious and moving. You really are the smarter one my beloved, you always know what to do to make me happy!

You are my strength My, you always have been.  

When we started off with this entire takedown, I must confess (and I am sure you know already!) I was on an adrenaline high from the sacrifice I had made which saved the lives of those closest to me. I was thrilling at the close encounters with all the dangers, at what Molly had managed to pull off, at fooling Moriarty and then having him die in front of my eyes.

I have always been a solitary person (I can see you scoff at that and point out the very many ‘goldfish’ I have managed to gather into my life so far). But, when I left London 15 months ago, I would have happily carried on for years and years, travelling the globe like an undercover pirate, doing my swashbuckling and pillaging in shadowy spaces, adventure upon adventure every day!

After all, when I took that fall from St.Bart’s I did it effectively accepting that Sherlock Holmes, the World’s Only Consulting Detective was dead. But Lock the Pirate could live many lives, sometimes dropping in, incognito, to check on Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade or John or Molly. And they would never know!

It would have been part of the charm of living life on the run!

I know you were reluctant to let me do this. I remember every disapproving look and every logical argument you offered against it. The repeated attempts to dissuade me and let your people take care of Moriarty and the network. But I was foolish and so drunk on the sense of something new, something big, something dangerous and exciting that I disregarded every caution and suggestion you offered and bullied you into making my plan work.

And as always, you finally gave in and between you and Molly pulled off the most spectacular magic trick. 

Now I realize how much it must have distressed you to let me do this and to go off into such danger. You always knew your love for me even if you never said it, isn’t it? You always were the smart one.

The reason I am saying all this now is to say I am sorry! I was foolhardy, impulsive, clearly a bit mad, over confident…whatever else you want to call me. But I would do it all over again  every single time if it meant that it would lead to this---to you, to your heart, to our love, to our…marriage.

I still cannot believe that it is real! That we exchanged rings and you are now my life partner and my husband. Every time I look at the ring on my finger I am helpless to stop smiling and I cannot believe how I ever got so lucky!

I want to promise you again and again, my infinite love, my constant trust and my unending belonging.

But I do want to ask something from you too. I know that you will always think of me as your younger brother and will always protect me and care for me the way you have done our entire lives.

And I want that. I will always want that!

But I want you to also find a way to start thinking of me as your partner. As your equal, (even if you are the smarter one and the older one). I want to walk shoulder to shoulder with you on this journey together. Yes, I will always do impulsive and idiotic things (or at least want to) and you will have to look after me then, but I want you to allow me to look after you too.

I want you to let me take decisions as often as you do, for the things we do together. I want you to feel free to scold me and argue with me without fear of hurting me, because from what I understand that is part of normal relationships! 

(I should have recorded the flaming row Isabella had with her partner and how just minutes later they were doing some rather interesting non-shouting things to each other...)

Most importantly, I want you to be able to feel safe being not always so strong. You make it seem so easy but surely there are days when you want someone you can safely be grumpy and tired with and be petted and pampered back to a happy place?

I want that to be me. I want you to be able to say  _ Lockie I am so tired today _ . Or  _ love, I had a really bad day, can you make it better? _

I want you to let me be to you what you have always been to me! A sanctuary. A refuge. 

I cannot promise I will do anywhere as good a job as you do for me, but I want you to let me try.

I was sick last week, hence the delay in replying. Isabella looked after me so kindly (and no My, please, it was about as ‘intimate’ as when Mummy or Nanny would take care of me when I had fever! Wet cloth on my forehead and feeding me chicken soup and changing the sweaty sheets while I grumbled and cursed in impatience. And the row she had with her partner (Ximena, yes it is a woman--can you see my mischievous smile at that revelation??) had nothing to do with me.)

Anyway, the reason I am telling you all this is that I realized I had no idea who looks after you when  you a re ill. And in the future, hopefully there will not be too many occasions to do so, but if there are then I want to be the one you turn to, the one who looks after you, the one who makes you better.

The one who is  your strength.

I am longing to be back with you. This adventure no longer holds any excitement for me as it did 18 months ago. 

Being with you is going to be the biggest adventure of my life and although we have already started on it, I simply can’t wait to hold you again and kiss you (surely more than twice every day and definitely more than five times on a Sunday and probably a thousand times during any other time in between) and do all manner of things together again!

As you may have guessed already (and I can actually hear the gears clicking in your brain), this long letter is also to assuage my slight guilt at what I am about to do!

I was planning to get to Florida from where you can have me return to Russia via Serbia. Stefan has to be taken care of before we can be home free. But My, I cannot resist taking a detour via Haiti! You know that Tortuga was the first buccaneers’ heaven here in the Caribbean. And of course while there are no pirates left there anymore, it is just two hours from there to Florida and I really must stop by!! 

So I am going as a galley worker on the Quantum of Seas cruise ship from Aruba.

I know this is not part of the plan but don’t worry, I will message you as soon as I get to Florida and you can keep my papers ready with Duarte.

Yours in love,

Lockie

P.S

With Molly and Anthea working together and looking out for us, trust me, there is no safer place on this planet! I hope you did not give Anthea too much grief for letting me know about the shootout at Whitehall. Do you dare imagine what our lives would be like right now if she had not? And if I had not turned up at Thornfield that night? It doesn’t bear thinking about!

P.P.S

And just because I am feeling a bit silly and will be running off to play pirates like a small child, I am sending you our favourite nonsense love poem from childhood. Piggy-wig already got us our rings, but do find a runcible spoon for when I get back so you can feed me with it and then we can dance by the light of the moon!!

The Owl and the Pussy Cat went to sea   
In a beautiful pea-green boat,   
They took some honey, and plenty of money   
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.   
The Owl looked up to the stars above,   
And sang to a small guitar,   
"O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love,   
What a beautiful Pussy you are,   
You are,   
You are!   
What a beautiful Pussy you are!"

Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl!   
How charmingly sweet you sing!   
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:   
But what shall we do for a ring?"   
They sailed away, for a year and a day,   
To the land where the Bong-tree grows   
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood   
With a ring at the end of his nose,   
His nose,   
His nose,   
With a ring at the end of his nose.

"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling   
Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."   
So they took it away, and were married next day   
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.   
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,   
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;   
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,   
They danced by the light of the moon,   
The moon,   
The moon,   
They danced by the light of the moon.

    -Edward Lear

 

**April 6, 2015**

My dear Captain,

I find myself wondering what manner of disreputable scourge you are.  A devilishly handsome wit like William Goldman’s Dread Pirate Roberts?  You’re not quite exotic enough to be Nemo. Perhaps you’re secretly legitimate, working as a privateer?  Or as an adventurer and explorer, like Scott of the Antarctic? 

Knowing you, brother mine, it all depends on the day.

And while you’re being charming and roguish, I shall settle myself on shore as Governor.  All the better to help you escape from whatever trouble you find.

However, more seriously, detouring to Haiti might be a wise decision right now.  We know Stefan has been hunting for you (I’m sure that comes as no shock) and he’d never think to search an old pirate’s port.  Let the heat die down for a few days, and I’ll ensure that your new identity papers will be waiting for you in Florida.

I’m sorry, dearest, if this letter seems a little choppy.  I’ve been ordered back to Hartfield for the Easter weekend, and have been trying to scribble down a line or two whenever I have a spare moment.  Right now, it seems as though half the elderly population of the village has gathered in the back garden for tea and gossiping. 

I’ll be expected to join them shortly, but for the moment I’ve retreated to my room, under the guise of returning some messages for work.  Which isn’t entirely untrue…

And sounds far safer than braving the sea of conveniently single women that have  _ mysteriously _ been invited this afternoon.  Apparently Mummy’s annual bout of vile matchmaking has come early this year (you might have the right idea about escaping into piracy).

Our parents send their love, and the reminder to stay safe.   

I feel like this letter is going around in circles, as I try to work through my own feelings about our relationship.  Then, searching for the right words to explain those feelings to you. I’m very aware of the irony-- when a man speaks over twenty languages, you’d think a lack of words wouldn’t be a problem.  

Yet, over the last fifteen months, I’ve found myself in this position several times, and I’m not certain it gets much better.

You know I love you, I have always loved you.  But I’m not entirely sure I know how to stop trying to protect you, as I’ve always done.  Please understand, Lockie, it’s not that I don’t want to! I’ve never seen you as less than me, and you are right-- we should be equals.  And I should be able to turn to you when things are difficult.

But in the same vein, I don’t want to burden you.  You have so many of your own struggles, that I’m loathe to add to them.  Perhaps things would seem a little more clear if I wasn’t in a house with your baby photos on the walls!  

And perhaps I’m giving it too much thought, and not enough heart.  

Trusting you to take care of me isn’t the same as neglecting you.  You may have to remind me of that in the future. But I’ll do my very best to remember; after all, we both know we have habits that need to be broken.  

I want to be your partner in all things, my Lockie.  To build a life with you, my other half, as you were always meant to be.  

As for Anthea and Molly, they are wicked, meddling women, and I’m eternally grateful for them both! 

However, I’m also being summoned downstairs, and Mummy sounds decidedly cross that I’ve been hiding up here so long.  Hopefully by the next time I write, I’ll have better answers for you. But for now, they don’t seem to be forthcoming, and my heart is all confusion in my chest.

Remember that I love you, and always will.

Sincerely,    
Gov. M. Holmes

PS: I found myself in your old room this afternoon, wishing that the furniture still held some vibration of when you lived there.  And my wedding ring will probably wear through, because I keep rubbing it against my thumb to make sure it’s still there. I feel like I’m looking for you in reflections, and searching for you in the places you used to be.  

I love thee - I love thee,  
'Tis all that I can say  
It is my vision in the night,  
My dreaming in the day.

    -Thomas Hood

 

**7** **th** **April 0045 hours**

**Radio message:**

SOS. QoS involved in child trafficking. Being taken to * _ crackle _ *

**Radio silence.**

 

**April 7, 2015 : MI6 Internal Message**

Urgent.

Agent missing.  Including last known coordinates.

 

**April 18, 2015 : MI6 Internal Message**

Urgent.

Agent missing, suspected Web interference.  Relocating resources from nearby assignments.

No contact.

 

**April 29, 2015 : MI6 Internal Message**

Urgent.

Agent missing.  Location unknown.

Relocating resources from outlying assignments.

 

**May 5, 2015 : MI6 Internal Message**

Urgent.

Possible contact.  Send team to attached meeting point.

Threat high.

Approach with caution.

 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more chapters left! Any theories about what's about to happen?


	14. But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things may never be the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys have been through so much, but Moriarty's web isn't quite finished with them, yet!
> 
> The chapter title is from 'Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening', by Robert Frost.

**< incoming radio message> Urgent**

_ “My, am safe. Was held by the traffickers and couldn’t escape… wouldn’t escape without the children. Going to Florida with your agents now.” _

 

**10th May,**

My,

This childish dream of piracy does not withstand the glare of reality.

I could have gladly killed every one of these traffickers for what they do. Well, two were. It wasn’t possible to get the children out otherwise.

I am staying here for a few days to recover. Food and medicine were hardly the highest priority for their prisoner. But don’t worry. I am fine.

I am so sorry My for having put you through this agony of suspense but for the sake of those children…I would probably do it again.

I really am so sorry to have put you through this because I cannot even imagine what I would go through if you suddenly disappeared for a month at stretch. It was a bit premature of me to send you letters asking to look after you when clearly I am still going to burden you with my care!!

I heard from your agent that Lestrade has been working to clear my name. He always was a good man. And your man also seemed to think that Anderson was leading some sort of an ‘I Believe in Sherlock Holmes’ brigade?? I am entirely uncertain if the idea makes me want to laugh or cry.

 

**11th May**

I was too tired to complete the letter yesterday and then your last letter got to me today, which was good timing! Now that the dizzy spells have gone and I can sit up and write, I decided to do so right away.

Let Mummy know that she can be convicted for aiding and abetting bigamy if she tries to find you a suitable bride. That would be a fun conversation to have.

I am going to keep this brief, because the distance between us just seems so un-surmountable on some days that I have to try really hard to remind myself to carry on. Your ring reminds me of what is waiting for me back home and renews my faith.

That someday this will end. That someday I will see you. Hold you. Just be with you.

So I shall be making plans to leave for Serbia as soon as I am fit. Once Stefan has been dealt with I think the worst of the network would have been dismantled and perhaps I can be back home free.

Yours,

Lock

P.S.

This song has been playing on a loop here at this old fashioned motel we are bunking in. Here is the part that makes me think of you.

My head’s under water  
But I’m breathing fine  
You’re crazy and I’m out of my mind  
'Cause all of me  
Loves all of you  
Love your curves and all your edges  
All your perfect imperfections

Give your all to me  
I’ll give my all to you  
You’re my end and my beginning  
Even when I lose I’m winning  
'Cause I give you all of me  
And you give me all, all of you  
Give me all of you

 

**May 12, 2015**

My Lock,

I’ve been sitting here with my pen for hours, and I still can’t find the words to start this letter.  I had begun to lose hope that I would ever have the chance to speak to you again, and part of me is still petrified of waking up to find that this is another dream.

Just as part of me wants to tell you not to worry about me.  That I’m fine, and only relieved that you’re safe. It would be the truth-- and yet, it feels as though I’m lying by omission..

I want to be there, and I’m not certain I’ll feel secure again until you’re back in my arms where I can feel for myself that you’re alive.  And until then, I find myself rereading and rereading your letters, until every word is fixed in my mind.

I’m sorry for this faltering letter, dearest.  My mind is spinning, and I have no way to put these emotions into words.  

I nearly lost you.

We both knew this assignment was dangerous, and yet, I couldn’t imagine a world without you in it.  Now I’ve seen what a cold, desolate place that world would be, and I want no part of it. 

Be careful, my Lock, please.  Come back to me safely.

And know that I don’t blame you.  

I would have done the same thing in your position.  With your information we’ve already intercepted two more ships, and taken several of the prominent members of the trafficking ring into custody. 

They won’t be hurting anyone anymore, my dearest, and we have you to thank for it.  

Lestrade has indeed been working to clear your name. He’s convinced that you were wrongly accused, and single-mindedly determined to make sure the rest of the world knows it as well.  You’ve become something of a legend in your absence, brother mine.

The brilliant man who died to save his friends.  I don’t envy you the media attention when you return to London.

This letter is easier when I stick to the facts.  These emotions will vivisect me if I give them the chance, and there’s still too much work to be done.  Just a little longer, and we can erase this distance forever.

Right now, I need to focus on bringing you home safely.  Seeing you again has eclipsed all my other human desires, and it’s that thought that keeps me moving forward.

I will see you again.  There is no other option. 

Stefan has settled his base of operations in Serbia, near Novi Sad, and has gathered a large following of criminals and mercenaries under his banner.  It is as I suspected, Lock-- Stefan is, in fact, Baron Maupertius. That title alone will rally people to his cause, and supplies him with greater funds than we had originally believed.

Whatever happens, I’ll come for you, wherever you are.  Remember that.

With all my love,

Mycroft

PS:  No poetry this time, my dearest.  The only verse that continues to spring to mind is Auden’s Funeral Blues, and I refuse to put that down on paper.  Call me superstitious if you like, but it feels like tempting fate.

 

**20th May**

My,

I too find myself oddly deficient in words today.

It does feel like the endgame. I need to get to Stefan now and be done with this once and for all.

I will be leaving for Serbia tomorrow. 

Once that has been dealt with, I am going to come back to you.

I miss you so much.

Wait for me.

Lock

 

**May 22, 2015**

I don’t know if this message will reach you in time, but I have to try.

I love you, and I’ll wait.

Be careful.

My

 

**10th June**

Dear Mycroft,

It is with great sorrow and regret that I have to inform you-- this will be my  
Last letter to you.  
Once you receive this, it will be too late to do anything for me.  
Vanquishing the enemy has proved to be an impossible task, brother mine.  
Everything we did was futile and the network grows strong again.  
You cannot come looking for me or the Baron will kill you too.  
Only make sure that our parents are taken care of.  
Uncle Rudy too.

Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's so hard to believe that we only have one chapter left. So come pop into the comments about chat Holmes-y things with us!
> 
> We'll see you on Saturday for the finale! 💜


	15. I was walking along looking for somebody, and then suddenly I wasn't anymore.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Holmes brothers are made whole again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's hard to believe this is the last chapter, but all good things must come to an end! 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's come on this adventure with us, your comments have gotten us through quite a few bouts of writer's block! This whole experience has been amazing, and sharing it will all of you has just made it better!
> 
> The chapter title is from A.A. Milne, and Winnie the Pooh. 
> 
> Now, onto the epilogue!

_ It was over. _

For more than two years, the terrible plan had hovered over Mycroft’s head like a guillotine blade.  The unthinkable option, should everything else go wrong. They’d planned around it, set their chess pieces on the board and done their best.

But in the end, Moriarty had simply forced their hand.  

A single bullet had tipped the first domino.

Sherlock had stepped off the edge of St Bart’s roof.  

And their deaths had set a sequence of events into motion that even the Holmeses couldn’t entirely predict. 

But now, 512 days later, it was over.  And they were left to balance the cost.

From the cheap plastic chair, Mycroft looked over at his little brother.  He was filthy and flayed, too thin beneath the worn hospital blankets. They’d taken refuge in a small, rural community-- out of sight, and far away from any straggling loyalists that might be searching for revenge.

Waiting on a blood transfusion that, they hoped, would give Sherlock the strength to survive the trip back to London.

Sherlock was anemic and scarred, but with his grimy hand clutched hard in Mycroft’s, he’d finally fallen asleep.  

Mycroft didn’t think he would ever sleep again, but in the institutional quiet of the hospital room, he had already begun filing the traumatic images into his Mind Palace.  Sorting them and quarantining them away with the others; things to be addressed and faced when they were back home, and Sherlock was out of danger.

“Mr. Bellamy?”  

Mycroft stirred from his thoughts at the sound of the doctor’s rough, pleasant voice.  It was a touch sentimental, perhaps, but as children, Mycroft had told his brother stories of the pirate Bellamy, and though he would appreciate the reference when he woke up.

Such a silly thing, but if it made Sherlock smile?  

“Yes?”

The doctor shifted his weight and slowly scrubbed his hands together in the universal gesture of ‘ _ I’m sorry, but…’ _ .  Mycroft’s fingers tightened in his brother’s, and felt the subtle click as their rings pressed together between their hands.  “The good news is that we were able to borrow a portable transfusion machine from the city, but... Your brother’s blood, sir…”

_ Rare.  AB negative.   _

_ The same as their father. _

_ And his father. _

Mycroft was half shrugged out of his jacket before the doctor had finished giving his faltering explanation.  Beneath his pale skin, scattered with cinnamon coloured freckles, his veins were drawn out in faded purples and blues.  Slender fingers curled loosely against his palm, Mycroft held it out in open offering.

“Is the same as mine, Doctor.  And I assure you, I’m a suitable donor.  Take what you need.”

Sherlock drifted between sleep and wakefulness for many long minutes before he finally woke up.

His first reaction on opening his eyes was to look around frantically since the last thing he remembered was the Serbian prison where he was being tortured.

The sight of the clean sparse room calmed him down a bit and then he saw that the only other bed was occupied by the one thing that still kept him anchored to this life.

Mycroft. 

He was asleep and there was a tube running down his arm… what?! Why?!

_ What had happened?? _

He struggled to get up before he realized that his hand had been strapped down, rather wisely, in anticipation.

He blinked to clear his brain and saw that there was a similar tube in his own arm but running down from a bag… of blood?!

Oh! Were they transfusing him with blood?

From Mycroft?

He fell back on is pillow with a strange warm feeling in his chest.

His beloved My had found him.

Mycroft had read the desperate letter he had been forced by the Baron to write. He had decoded the acrostic clue and despite Sherlock’s explicit warning to stay away, he had not only come for him but he had found him.

He remembered that feeling which swept over him when he had seen Mycroft in the prison that day. Speaking Serbian. Standing there, looking utterly confident and in control. It had given him strength to fight back, using his brain again, to get the guard out of the way.

Mycroft had rescued him from a certain death.

And now?

Perhaps it was the painkillers and the light-headedness from the blood loss, the torture, the starvation but he thought he could actually feel every red blood cell that belonged to his beloved rippling into his own bloodstream.

Like a slow spreading wave of hot lava, they were making their way through his entire being. Seeping into every organ.

My, who was his  everything , was literally the oxygen in his lungs now… and the blood in his veins … and the glucose in his brain.

Their shared blood made literal.

He smiled at the thought that perhaps if he touched their fingertips together, they would start merging and become one hybrid creature…

But then that would make kissing difficult.

Hmm… he did enjoy the kissing, he thought as he started drifting in and out of consciousness again.

He wondered whether Mycroft would think it too morbid if, after 120 days, when he had new red blood cells of his own, he could also give Mycroft some of his own blood…  he would love to do that… once he is better…

As he sank into the sweet oblivion of sleep, he dreamt of London, of holding hands under the umbrella in the rain, making babies, playing with Redbeard in the meadows, shining gold rings, kisses, sweet, tender kisses, passionate kisses… he was going to pamper his lover when they had both recovered… tea in bed, massages, take him to the opera… read books by the fireplace… he was going to dance with him, play the violin for him.

His fingers flexed at the thought….he had been parted from his violin for too long…He dreamt of warm mornings and cold nights and everything in between.

He could see eternity in the palm of his hand as he went to sleep with a smile on his face.

Mycroft wasn’t certain how long he’d been asleep when the world rudely began pressing in at the edges, demanding to be heard.  Truthfully, he hadn’t intended to sleep at all-- he hadn’t really thought it was possible, not when his head was swimming with the events of the last days.

Weeks.

… Years.

But where the mind is willing, the flesh is occasionally less determined.  He’d watched the slow flow of blood through the clear plastic tubing; dark where it had never touched the air, and carrying his living vitality into his brother.  Mentally he calculated the distance, and the rate of cooling, and wondered how it must feel to be on the other end of their tether. 

Lulled by the white noise hum of the transfusion machine, and the steady cadence of Sherlock’s breathing, Mycroft fancifully imagined that, if they were just a little closer, he might be able to read the flickers of unconscious thoughts that darted through his brother’s mind.  It was his last complete thought before, with a half smile, he slipped into sleep himself.

When Sherlock woke, the sun was slowly pulling itself over the horizon, and the side of his bed had been commandeered by the his big brother.  It wasn’t technically a big enough space for two grown men, but Mycroft seemed comfortable enough, even perched on the very edge. 

They were both pale and drawn, pushed beyond their exhaustion, until there was only the warm weight of the bodies, resting against one another.  

The spicy warm scent of tea rose up on the steam from his chipped white mug, and Mycroft’s fingers were tenderly-- slowly, cautious of the snarls-- combing through the tangled mess of Sherlock’s curls.  

This time, there were no notes.  No promises that they’d be together again soon.  For nearly two years, Sherlock and Mycroft had filled the aching distance between them with paper and ink-- and now-

Finally.

They were together.

Against his chest, Sherlock smiled.  Sleepy eyed and softly content, their bodies tangled loosely together on the narrow bed.  Balancing one another. Sherlock could smell the vestiges of his brother’s cologne-- grapefruit and cedar, still-- clinging to the collar of his shirt, beneath the antiseptic burn of the hospital, and the foul, metallic reek of the dungeon.  

The impossible had become real, and they were safe.

It was over.

And whatever came next, they would be together.  The first of many mornings, just like this. 

“Welcome back, dearest mine.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you have it, back together and where they belong.
> 
> We are tossing around some ideas for other stories, so this isn't the last you've seen of us!
> 
> And we'd love to know how people are feeling about it, so come swing down into the reviews to chat about our favourite boys!
> 
> ❤️


End file.
